


Fault Lines

by Recidiva



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Shrios, Smut, anti-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recidiva/pseuds/Recidiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While writing Venri I developed an idea of who I thought Thane Krios would be and the kind of Shepard that would fall in love with him.  People who deserved each other.  Smart, scary, Renegade without apology.  Anti-fluff.  Love between a Butcher and an Assassin.  Fits into plot points but rewrites motivations and conversations.  Because damn, that man deserved better. All from Thane's POV.</p><p>Thank you for kudos and comments, always something that brightens up my day.  Thank you for emails to recidiva@live.com, views on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCXtJIbUjEYgnb2WBUf3gCjw">YouTube</a></p><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6m0YJleOvqrsnzD4PW6BJShfjYAUDOMr">Fault Lines Narrated on YouTube</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When he first saw his Siha his hands were warm and tingling from the pressure it took to snap a neck, the kick of the pistol into his palm, the cradling support of Nassana’s life-lost body. His palms had calmed when he’d settled to prayer but awoke again at the sight of her, at the sound of her. The completion of his purpose had been sudden and explosive, his patient waiting at an end, adrenaline surging through his system along with the satisfaction of success and the blank space of his expected death, unfilled.

For a moment all these sensations and impressions coalesced in his mind, each strand of thought pulled into an arrow aimed at the presence of this woman with hair of fire and a face that matched with rifts in her skin that glowed red, scarred in curved lines around her deeper matte red eyes and sharp cheekbones.

Something long lost stirred in his body and his heart sped an errant few beats in realization before his breathing and control brought it to heel.

His path was lit in that moment of satisfaction and expectation, of death and emptiness.

She was his Siha and she did not know it yet, but he belonged to her, a lightning flash of revelation granted by Arashu.

Her presence was a burning gift, given him by the will of the Gods.

He awoke sudden and vibrant from battle sleep, knowing this moment could be cherished, refreshed and relived whenever he chose. It would be often.

I just tore this place apart looking for you. The least you can do is look at me.

Her name was Shepard. He knew of her. As she spoke he became more certain of the landmarks, of the map, of the Rightness. Her cause was worthy and her path already set and he need only set his feet behind her on that path and watch. That choice was done before she’d finished proposing it.

The Gods rarely granted such Rightness and he would not mistake the signs, would not set a foot awry.

She was his will and he would savor discovering what that was. His hands, tingling and warm and ready, belonged to her. They shook hands, a human custom, one he’d never indulged in before. He had not put a hand on anyone in years without intending death to be the result. The tingling grew, passing up his arm with the strength of omen.

He spoke a prayer as he did before each of his endeavors of life and death, this one personal, the prayer for himself only. 

Amonkira, grant that my hands be steady, my aim be true and my feet swift.

He ended the prayer there. This was not a whim of the living to end a life. There was a greater will here that would not admit failure or even the possibility of doubt. This was a command to extend a life, something that had so far been beyond his reach. If he failed he could only ask himself for forgiveness and that would be futile. He was not a man of forgiveness.

She’d asked for his willingness to die and he gave it with both committed hands, informing her of the illness building in his blood, robbing him of breath.

Robbing, but not robbed. Not yet.

His breath was his strength and his steadying will and he would not gasp. He would take each measured breath to the fullness of his ability for as long as life and breath were granted.

Her face foretold that she would neither ask for nor grant forgiveness of her own should she fail, should he fail.

The cruelty of the landmarks were written in her face, in the harsh edge of her voice, in the cold demand in her eyes. Her face comforted him. He need not fear for her. She was not an innocent unaware of what lurked in the dark. So often he dealt with ignorance and it was a sharp pleasure to look into eyes that could understand who he was and demand his service, knowing the price. Too many people took on actions without knowing the price.

She understood a dark path and her red eyes provided the only light there. She would not understand that his was lit by a will other than his own, a will whispered only to the Drell. Only to him.

He had met a Siha before, outrage and courage in her eyes. The Gods knew that he knew the ways of Siha, could coax them to his hand, could survive their death, the outrushing breath of their withdrawn inspiration. That was proven. What was not yet proven was whether or not he would grant his life to this Siha and fail. The Rightness was in giving his life, saving hers. A trade, Siha for Siha. His balance would rise from the negative that pulled at him.

He had been the cause of Irikah being taken from her life while he still lived, he would be the cause for keeping Shepard in the world while he died. That symmetry guided his hands into servitude.

His soul would travel to the shores, meet with Irikah, serve her sunset eyes.

His body, his breath, his life would serve this Siha with no less devotion and with more experience and dedication. She would not die because of him, she would live beyond the end of his life in her service.

He would not fail.

There would be no forgiveness and no apologies.

He was awake.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He watched his teammates, watched his Siha with double lidded eyes.

Ethics were dry and rattling things to an assassin, fragile and apt to fly away in the wind, unattended. Stealth in motion and in thought were the essence of his utility and success. Any stuttering thought or rattling concern of ethics would be discarded in the same way that he would cull a shoe with a tendency to squeak. He contemplated this as he followed his path. Despite his training from Hanar and his respect for his mentors, he knew he had not been taught to possess morality, aided by the Drell philosophy of body will and spirit will. He had been used as a child, trained and indoctrinated. 

Indoctrinated. Now a further insidious term and concern. Similar in many ways. Turned from family or friends or the potential of any such toward the will of others, unquestioned and unblinking.

His morality had been replaced by observation of reality. He’d been created as a weapon to serve and when he had taken it upon himself to bring about the excruciatingly painful deaths of his wife’s murderers, he had shed the illusions of morality and service.

He could clothe himself in morality and service, speak of them with practiced wisdom, but they were merely his costume and it was not his costume that ended lives and brought about the will of the Gods.

It had been required to transcend the will of his Hanar masters and this was the result of disillusion. However painful, his spirit had finally risen and melded with his body’s will. Morality and honor were words, never a shield against death, and his business was death. Though he had been raised with a mystical admonition against doing so, he had finally researched the lives more fully of those he had murdered at his masters’ insistence. He’d killed many people of morality and honor. He’d denied even more mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses and children of a loved one. He had robbed the good of time spent with family. He had robbed the wicked of redemption, their souls burdened, never to be lightened by further time or wisdom.

His words would grant no seam of conflict upon which to pry at his motivations. His words would be few and they would be like water. Cut at them and they would flow back together. His costume would be his skin and his silence and it would fit.

Each endeavor must begin with a plan. He must know her, he must learn her, he must find the path to her. In the towers he had evaded her until his purpose was done, and that showed him his further path. This lit path was only his to see. She was noise and brash destruction and he would slip unseen through her defenses. 

He watched her and recognized in her an equivalent lack of morality, but she had none of the grace or restraint he had cultivated. She did not represent any level of rule of law. She was fire, a volcano, pouring and storming down wrath. She was a Soldier trained class, no biotics, no technical skills. Her fighting style was reflected in her personality. She was explosive and those around her must become accustomed to shrapnel raining down on the battlefield or in a conversation. Set her off and she would take you with her.

He’d done a great deal of research regarding his Siha since coming aboard. Much of his time had been spent surveying records and accounts of her career. She had a first name but he would not call her by it under any circumstances. She was his Siha and that was the only name she needed from him. He would call her Commander or Shepard if he must call her anything and his silence failed.

One of her names was “The Butcher of Torfan.” 

Shepard would grant no forgiveness and he craved the arid clarity of ruthlessness. It granted him the freedom to behave as he truly was, as she needed him to be. The Gods had put him in her hands, put her in his hands because they would fit like two twisted carved pieces, too intricate to interlock unless it had been by design. 

Ruth – a feeling of pity, distress or grief.

Ruthless – having or showing no pity or compassion for others.

Irikah had been the essence of Ruth, and his passion for her had been protective, gentle and ultimately lost to the careless restlessness of his truer self. A less wise man might think that Irikah would hate him for his actions, watching him from beyond the shores with anger and condemnation.

The truth was not that. It would be easier of it were that. He could bear being castigated by Irikah. It would be justice. He would be severed from her will, rejected. But she would never hate, her internal workings immune to the corruption that would bring. He imagined her hollow, composed of light, all the horrors that life could create splashing through her as she remained unchanged. No place for hate or anger to stick to or rise from her like steam. Dead, she would redouble her ethereal insistence on kindness, forgiveness. She would always welcome him. He had developed an edge of contempt for unconditional love and that edge had cored him cleanly, softer nature cauterized and bloodless. 

Ironic, Irikah, that in avenging you I defiled your memory and your light, strengthened my dedication to the things, the person you despised. It would have been better had you taken mercy on me upon our first meeting and torn my heart from my chest. I would have thanked you with blood-tinged lips.

He did not deserve forgiveness and yet she would let it fall upon him like rain and he himself would transmute it into a wash of acid upon his skin. That was his penance. That was his eternal penance, to be bound to a Siha who would dismiss his honed and hard-bought nature as insignificant, unworthy of notice, set aside for future potential as perhaps a delicacy merchant in the mountains, his value measured by the texture of the keman he peddled.

The fact that she had been right and that if he had remained useless at her side she would still be alive was the corruption born in his bones like his marred blood, passing its insidious destruction delicately through his body and mind, robbing him of his air and inspiration. He died not all at once through mercy, but with the slow immeasurable cellular suffocation he could not comprehend in its mechanism.

Being struck with Kepral's syndrome was another lesson of the Gods, a rebuke to his utility. 

The venom of his skin was seemingly composed of this knowledge and of careful chemically supplemented alterations based on Hanar training to make it virulently hypnotic and hallucinogenic. 

His mistake had been in the arrogance he'd undertaken to love a Siha instead of serving her. He would take this second chance and observe the lessons of his first tragic encounter and eviscerating bond.

Shepard had no defenses against venom or biotics and he could physically overpower her with ease, but it was not solely her body that he required. In order to guide her path he must be able to influence her actions, and for that he must be in her blood, in her ear, in her body. He must be able to learn her will so fully that he could suggest it to her, transfer it back to her as her own. She would not respond to rein or pull, she must want to turn as though the thought arose from her own mind.

He had no doubt he could attract her. As a Drell with the attendant mysteries and intimacies, as an assassin with his reputation and the attendant grace and danger, he was wanted. Across species lines, across genders, who he was had a language of its own that whispered to those who watched. Shepard would know him as her tool, as her weapon, and she would grow to wonder what other uses his graceful hands could serve.

Perhaps for her it would be purely lust, perhaps for him it would be service to further a goal. He had done it often enough in his career for seduction to be routine. Seduction was a tool for gathering information, for coercion, for camouflage. It was one of the most useful tools he had and the most versatile, providing leverage, information and access. 

Perhaps it was ego. Perhaps the need to prove that he could. Perhaps to prove to her that he could, prove to the Gods that no task was beyond him. Comparable to finding a great predatory beast of the sea and swimming alongside until fingertips brushed skin like armored scales. To know that if he did not behave like prey, did not thrash, did not strain from the lack of oxygen in his lungs the beast would turn in curiosity, brush against his hand of its own volition because of the novelty of contact, the lack of fear.

He would not strain from the lack of oxygen in his lungs. It would kill him, but he would not strain.

She would be accustomed to fear and confusion, begging and propitiation, as he was. She would have no need for the pressured begging of someone trying to light themselves from her fire, save themselves from her wrath, ask of her something that her power could give them when nothing else would serve.

Those who wanted power might want begging and propitiation, but that was for those who never truly accustomed themselves to power. Political power was one thing and those there needed the fear of the ruled, so there was a need to fear loss of influence. Power over life and death was a different type of power entirely. There was only one vote and the will to carry out that decree. Shepard did not care about begging, need or fear unless they got her what she wanted, be that information, cooperation or surrender. Thane was the same. He needed her information, cooperation and surrender, and she would understand that fully over time. She would be distracted by the idea that he could kill her, betray her, and that would waste her time as he bound her through unquestioned obedience. His goal would remain cloaked, as she would not suspect that he did not intend her death, but his own.

He was among talented people, but his Siha bewildered and intimidated the majority of those on the Normandy. Her closest relationship approaching friendship was with Garrus Vakarian. He had noticed and had researched Garrus as well. Part of her original crew, one of those who had fought Sovereign and Saren. Deadly with a rifle. Garrus was roiling with anger from past injustices and the only time his voice softened or judgment faded from his mutilated face was when he spoke to his Siha, cajoling or supporting as it suited him. Never disagreeing, never intimidating her with his greater height or strength, never anything suggesting mutiny. Garrus would abide by her judgment, and would in fact put his own mind through impossible acrobatics to support her, contradicting ideals he held five minutes ago in anecdote to support the decision she had just made. Murder became necessary and overt cruelty became a praised tactic behind his eyes, on his skewed tongue. She saw that dichotomy, as did Thane. Garrus did not see it that way, his justifications reverse-engineering her needs and setting labels on her behavior as righteous.

She was not righteous. Along with Garrus's versions of her behavior he could see the shift in her eyes from knowing she was supported to knowing that she demanded that twisting in him, never altering her decisions to placate her second in command.

Thane wondered if she had ever been seen, ever had her armored scales brushed in the depths like the sea beast of teeth and cold. Had she not wished to be seen she would not have joined military service with ranks and medals. She would have lived in a thieves' den somewhere, amassing her hoard of treasures and dead bodies to guard. Then there would be no seeing her, only putting her body on top of that pile or becoming a part of it himself.

Thane would see her but not reveal her to others and she would know she was known.

This woman did not wish to be known by most, but she did not reject the admiration or approval of those who knew the twists and turns and blind alleys of killing. She was competitive, tracking kills callously with Garrus and arguing over the merits of a gun over a fist, up close from remote.

That was the path to her weaknesses, following the sinuous curves of her strengths to the breaks in her armor. Everyone bent somewhere and longed for motion in those places, and they were the most vulnerable spots.

He would not attribute normal motivations to her. She would not desire love or approval, but she would be a very unusual person if she had no curiosity. She would be an exception to the law of the living if she experienced no desire for like body pressed to like body, twisting together like the carvings of the Gods and taking new shape.

Garrus was the only member of the crew who knew her as a colleague, had spent time with her, had been chosen by her in days long past. Had been chosen by her again and not left to bleed to death, broken and useless on the tiles of an improvised bunker on Omega.

Garrus had been Called by his Spirits, spoken to in the tradition of the Turian past as the Drell Gods spoke to him, Called to serve. Thane approved of Garrus, this fate-shaped cross-species team displaying symmetry of purpose, something Thane had not experienced, having always worked alone. 

There was no time for contemplation or prayer over the bodies of the dead. She, Garrus and Thane had piled up more bodies in a single day than Thane had in a year of his previous life. He listened while appearing not to listen as they argued over whether or not a swiftly cooling body had a shot in the middle of the forehead or slightly to the side as they stepped over it in their stalking, unhurried path to the next wave of provoked brutal slaughter. He fit into their style and strategy like water slipping between rocks, surprise and appreciation in their faces in the form of raised brows, low whistles and satisfied nods. He read the battlefield, they read him. He knew within the first few waves that Shepard would tend to go right as Garrus tended to go left, and he would choose different targets of his own, the habits of an assassin concealing his methods and occasionally the bodies themselves before passing on to a new target, his own contributions to the carnage going without counting, without demanding recognition.

The idea of having support was something he would not indulge in himself, but he needn't. He need only be supportive.

Flight Lieutenant Moreau and Dr. Chakwas had been in her crew previously, but navigation and medical assistance did not allow the opportunity to observe under combat conditions.

He respected Garrus, but he would not be competition for her…not affection…there would be no affection. Attention. 

If they had any interest in that direction there was no hint of it, their relationship that of seasoned soldiers. They trusted and respected each other but that was no threat. The Turian might possibly be interested in her, but his pace of pursuing was glacial and his understanding of her character occluded by his Turian respect for command structure and his personal need for some meaning he felt compelled to give to her, mirroring his own, that she did not possess. She was not justice, and that was Garrus’s ultimate love. 

What she was instead was courage, audacity and brutality in pursuit of a goal worth pursuing, against those who would end all human life, all Drell life, all Turian life in their ambitions. They were only recently reunited, she and Garrus, their paths divergent over years. Death hung on her, the span like a garland, haunting those around her. Garrus had mourned her death and the death of her purpose and the shadows of that were in Garrus's face when he was not aware he was being observed. Garrus had lost his soul after Shepard had died, just as Thane had lost his when Irikah was wrenched from life. Garrus’s immersion in carnage while needing to insulate himself from a repetition of such a loss was understandable. He felt a kinship with the man, an understanding of torn dreams.

Garrus would never take without permission and his Siha would never grant permission. His Siha required action, not words. He doubted that even if his Siha thought of Garrus as a possible partner, that she would risk the easy reliance they had upon each other, as though they were each a blade in a pair of perfectly honed scissors, closing together with a snap and satisfied eyes. Garrus was an enforcer, an extension of her will, able to put a shine on her motivations, make her appear noble to others, absolutely able to squelch dissent in any team composed of part Shepard, part Vakarian. He was ex C-Sec, related to fame and high in the Hierarchy himself if he chose to disclose that, reclaim that. She would not waste that potential, that influence on sex. Garrus was the definition of versatile and useful.

Garrus was an idealistic person and their relationship proved she cared enough to likely be concerned about tearing his heart from his chest, which she would do without thought, through sheer reflex and presence. She needed his rifle, needed Garrus watching interlopers such as himself, those who might have ulterior motives. She needed Garrus outside the chaotic event horizon, the tearing gravity of her inner self. She may not care about the destruction of a lover's illusions, but she would care about losing the Turian's watchful and perceptive eyes over her shoulder.

Her eyes in conversation or in order would turn over her shoulder, flash reading the attitude and intent of her squad mates. They had moved to Thane, speculative and suspicious, then later approving and surprised. Her eyes would move to another on the ship, impatient and mocking. When her eyes moved to Garrus, it was as though she was surveying her rifle or her armor. She expected him to be where he was and he was always where she expected and there was no ripple of thought. She took him entirely for granted and he in Turian fashion strove to be that for her. Necessary in battle, making Garrus indispensible. 

As an obvious sign on the path, he must use that information. He must draw her attention. He must be as indispensible as Garrus, but not be what or where she expected. Being indispensible would be simple, choosing in which way to be not what she expected would require further meditation. She must be aware of him in each moment if he were in range of her sight, and she must wonder what he was thinking or doing when he was out of her sight. He must intrude upon her thoughts, expectations and patterns in each moment and elicit curiosity in her.

Thane had no purpose in the light, unlike Garrus. He was useful, but not versatile. He had no family that would be outraged by potential mistreatment, no political ties, no authoritative voice.

He had no morals.

That was his next step on his path.

Thane was best suited to her event horizon because he had no illusions and because none of the meaningful actions he had taken in his professional life had involved permission. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He’d found a few monitoring devices in the Life Support section, which suited him well. He’d like to break into Shepard’s cabin ideally, but there was no way to circumvent the AI on the ship that he had yet determined and the risk of discovery was too great.

Instead he repurposed the monitoring devices and their transmission output to more discreet and anonymous settings and placed them around the ship, primarily in the Battery where Garrus was stationed because it was private and it was his best opportunity to observe the pair and their confidences when alone behind closed doors for extended periods of time.

He set another in the common area to pick up the largest amount of conversation and gossip and he set the final device in the shuttle, which he knew would be another spot for strategic and private conversation.

Surveillance was of interest but he also needed to be out in the ship, in plain sight, integrating with crew. Although he found no reason to go up to the CIC and the Captain’s cabin, everyone made their way down to the crew deck several times a day and so there he would be often.

He would retire to Life Support for meditation and data gathering, but he needed to attract her attention and the best way to do that was with his body. He learned his Siha’s patterns, and discovered when it would be most likely that she would seek him out, and spent those times in physical exertion in the cargo bay, part of his normal daily ritual but something most often done in private. The exposure was jarring and he modified his practice to conceal those things that were not to be shown to others, moves he would not use in combat out in the open.

The wide open space was a challenge to his perceptions and caused a tickling awareness of how many places there were from which to attack. Crates as cover, the bulk of the shuttle itself, too many entrances. He made it part of his routine to change position to face each of these potential threat locations smoothly in turn, adding a measure of difficulty to the balance and strength exercises he knew as muscle habit. He had lost approximately 7% of his speed, his strength, his stamina since the onset of Kepral’s Syndrome, but the work still moved through his muscles like water.

His pursuit of Shepard was always dual purposed, never out in the open as a motivation, and as his pursuit consisted mostly of lure, it was easy. His exercise became his exercise, with the possible goal of attracting her attention. His meals became his meals with the possibility of gaining the confidence of someone on the ship who might speak of her without prompting. If he needed to prompt he would be lost, he’d build a pattern of suspicion. His entire nature and nurture had been one of patience for the hunt and this being more of the same it was easy to simply be as he was, watch and listen.

He would ask nobody about her, ask nothing of her, merely provide opportunities for things to be told to him, questions to be asked of him.

Kelly Chambers’ attention was a risk, but this was all about managed risk. Kelly had openly and demonstrably made it clear that she was available for whatever orientation to human behavior he might wish. She was tempting in a tactical sense, having all of the information and dossiers and patterns of those on board. There was no reason to discourage her. 

She was not tempting as a bed mate and Thane struggled with this aspect of his mission. He had never considered being with a human. He had only known he must be with a Siha. Humans and Drell were close enough anatomically, but no venom, no shifting iridescence of skin, all the things of allure missing in creatures of only one texture and color of skin and additional inherent colors limited to eyes and hair, sometimes all three the same color, like Jacob.

His Siha was red and had scars that provided texture, glowed with color. Her eyes were exotic in their delicate small size, the reactive and ever-changing colors revealing or disguising internal workings, the muscles that formed her expressions like puppet strings.

Practicing on another human first would be ideal but also impossible.

Kelly had cornered him at meals, in meditation and had found him in his extended workout sessions in the cargo bay, effusive and curious about his practice, asking for demonstrations. He obliged. It would make him seem more social, more engaged, open to human companionship. Drell were not so great in number, not like humans or Turians. Drell were exotic and rare to the other species, even to Asari, sought out but often reclusive, finding their pleasures with their own kind.

To lack venom and therefore the visions that came with sex, to lack the rivers of bright color undulating on skin, to lack a frill…it appears that humans had inferior Gods of creation. They had structure, but little style in comparison.

Kelly was a simple tool and as such could be wielded easily, if bluntly. She was not usable for fine work, but she was not any level of threat to his plan and could be the means to further it should opportunities present themselves. He taught her the basic opening moves of a child’s form, correcting her technique by pulling her to him to demonstrate, his mouth at her ear, his hands not lingering, but not leaving quickly. She was child’s play and he had to remind himself to speak as an adult and not lighten or lessen his voice to reflect her transparent enthusiasm and catches of breath. Perhaps this could be practice of some sort, human physiology he could study. Dilation of pupils, sweat formation, change in scent, softening of muscles, receptive body posture.

Over time she showed no intent to politely leave him to continue his exercise, so at the appointed end of his timed study he took his own leave, thanking her for her time.

Another lesson in human physiology. Disappointment.

The days passed, his schedule solidified and he became predictable in his location. His Siha did not inform him of their schedule or their missions and his time was entirely his own. She had only come by for the most basic of discourse, history and theology lessons about Drell society. She had spoken to him only in Life Support and now he was not there. Kelly had no difficulty determining his patterns and pursuing him. He was certainly easy to pursue when he was standing still.

One day with Kelly disingenuously mistaking one form for another, a specific form that would require correction with his hands on her body, his Siha had been there, shoulders braced against the wall, watching. His heart beat hard with satisfaction and his eyes flowed around her, not seeing her. Not seeing that she leaned against the wall, watching, not caring if he saw.

He did not see, but Kelly did, and she jumped, flustered and seemingly guilty, allowing that to escape through her mouth and muscles, waving ostentatiously to Shepard and saying “Commander! What brings you here?”

Foolish question.

Shepard had kicked away from the wall and said “Just on my rounds, checking in. Krios has been difficult to find.”

Thane had turned to her and said “My apologies. Had I know you sought me I would have made myself available. I am available now, if you wish.”

Shepard had raised a brow and taken in Kelly’s flushed face and said “I’d hate to interrupt.” Her tone indicated the direct opposite and Kelly could not leave fast enough.

Shepard shook her head and said “Is she bothering you? She’s supposed to be at her station, but she started disappearing during certain intervals in her shift. She’s pretty much useless, but I’m relieved to see that she’s doing this rather than sending out messages in a bottle to Cerberus HQ.”

Thane replied “No, she is not bothering me. She appears to have an interest in Drell…” He paused fractionally and said diplomatically “Culture.”

Shepard had laughed, and the sound was unexpected. Her laugh in the moment was clear, of rich humor, devoid of the strains and harshness she weighted her voice with often in the field. She said “All right, but…tell me you have better taste.”

Thane regarded her, tilted his head and misunderstood her deliberately. “I have been told that I taste as a Drell should.”

She had laughed again and stated “That may be one of the better translator glitches I’ve heard. How should a Drell taste?”

He tilted his head to consider the phrasing and said “Sweet over a note of richness, with the aftertaste of tiremit.”

She shook her head “Tiremit? Didn’t translate.”

He explained “A light stinging on the tongue that is relieved by tasting again until the venom has saturated the blood. Like quenching deep thirst. An addictive sensation.”

Shepard shook her head and said “My, my, Drell…culture is interesting. Try not to break my crew, Krios, I need them able to work.”

Thane had bowed his head “Your crew is safely out of my hands. Other than any combat instruction that may be required or requested, they do not interest me.” He emphasized the word ‘they’ carefully.

She heard it and a speculative shadow passed through her eyes. His Siha was no fool. The volcano could be subtle and could read people when she chose. She continued as though she had not heard it. “All right. I’ll take your word. This isn’t an Alliance ship and I never did actually care who was fucking like bunnies, but I would request that you not overburden Dr. Chakwas with hallucinating young women, or young men, or whatever you’re into. Although if you could talk Zaeed into it, I’d pay to watch.”

That had made him laugh, and he’d seen her in that moment, surprise on her face at his laughter, her face free of her deeper menaces. This is how she spoke with Garrus, this is where she felt comfortable. His status in the ship hierarchy was clarifying and her opinion of him rising. He could likely break Kelly’s neck and his Siha would shrug and get a body bag, but if something was happening, she wanted to know.

His voice was lit with humor and warmth as he said “My arms are yours. If you could assist me with the best method to seduce a human male, I would do my best.”

Her laughter surprised him again and his lips curled into a smile as she said “Oh, oh. Oh, stop. I haven’t…oh, I want to. I really want to and…aah, I can’t look Zaeed in the eye for a few days. Do not tempt me. That’s a lot of power you’re giving me there Krios.”

He said “It appears human…culture is interesting as well. I look forward to future illumination on the subject.”

She seemed to sober and recover, but her eyes were dancing, sparkling and she said “All right. At this rate, so do I. We understand one other.” She turned to leave, but pivoted back on her heel after a few steps and said “Wait. I got distracted by vivid imagery. There was something I wanted to say. Since everyone on this ship is about to potentially die on my word, they seem to have all discovered dying wishes. Fulfilling these wishes is problematic. They’re not legal, they’re not military and they are as dangerous as anything else we’ve done, with no reward other than someone slightly more willing to focus on dying. I need to keep the content of the missions confidential to avoid more infighting bullshit. You seem to be one of the only people on this boat that can keep their mouth shut and you have not once whined about my methods. You didn't punch Jacob when he insulted you and I know I have one less feud on board because of that discretion. I promised you that I intended to survive this mission, but I need to make sure everyone else has the best chance I can give them to work together since they are putting everything on the line at my call. I know you signed up to fight Collectors, and you signed up for free and have asked for nothing in return." Her eyes clouded and her face transformed momentarily with the first glancing hints toward vulnerability he'd seen in her. Her eyes hardened when she realized she was nearing the word 'please' or positive praise rather than stating he provided not as many negative points as his contemporaries. She finished abruptly with the words "I need this bullshit squared. Think about it. Let me know.” She turned to leave.

I have not asked, but I will take, and whatever is required in service will be given.

She wished to abandon the conversation and its implications, but he did not grant her time. After she’d taken a few steps he said “You have my arm and my silence. Whatever you require will be as my own will.”

She had turned her head only partway, a curt acknowledgement of “Good.” her only answer.

When she had gone he continued his exercise until his scheduled time had passed. As his feet whispered over the deck he recalled her laughter, searching her face for those moments that revealed her humanity rather than concealing it under layers of careful armor.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

She made pursuit easy through her blunt insistence on having no outward reaction to him.

She made pursuit difficult through remaining suspicious of his motives.

She made pursuit possible by not being suspicious enough and having her curiosity snag on him and stick.

Having attracted her attention he knew well enough not to alter his habit of exercise, it would raise suspicion of having been manufactured. Kelly had not returned, but his Siha had, in the same place, shoulders slouched against the wall in contrast to her sharp eyes, one foot kicked back against the wall in a casual observer stance as he traveled through his familiar exercises. Again he purposely did not see her, considering and attempting to decipher her behavior. Perhaps she only wished to keep Kelly at her post, but had that been the case she could have intimidated her directly and he believed Kelly to be intimidated enough for several lifetimes. 

Whatever her intentions they were either for her own reasons that had nothing to do with him or she wished to get his attention. Therefore he would not give it to her. He could easily lie to her if she confronted him, explain that in Drell culture a subordinate may be seen but not heard unless addressed. It would not be true but her pride would not allow her to argue, otherwise she would have to admit that she wanted his attention as a woman and not as a commander. Why stand silently when she could command his attention with a word?

Commander Shepard, how odd.

He left her to her own thoughts, and he to his own, and at some point in the face of his determined serenity in her presence, after her eyes slipped over the sinews of his bared chest and arms, she had left and he was able to smile.

She returned day after day, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for longer, the hunger and speculation growing on her face as she assumed she was not seen and he was absorbed in the smooth form that connected his breath to his bones, muscles strained and light playing along the kaleidoscopic color of his skin.

One day she pressed the issue by staying in her accustomed place for a long time and to the point that he would end his work. That left him with no choice. He must end his workout on time, leave through his accustomed exit, where she stood, guarding it. He must finally see her, she demanded it. He had turned to incline his head to her neutrally on his way out.

She had stormed behind him into the hallway and he heard "Mother fucking Drell asshole" slip from her mouth, flavored with frustration and agitation and he knew he had her.

The pretense had worked, but she knew it as pretense.

Her volcanic wrath confronted him, pyroclastic flow in her eyes and under her skin, hands of warm, heaving stone. Her eyes met his for only a brief moment, his carefully neutral, hers searching for any suggestion of his own passion, which he denied her. She would need to convince him. He met her eyes with puzzled detachment. Her hands were on his upper arms and he allowed her to turn him and slam his back against a wall. She lunged for him and her mouth was on his, pushing his head back with force. Her lips were demanding, lacking the central rift and firmer texture that divided Drell lips into quarters. Her lips were softer, warmer and a disorienting, pleasure-slicked surprise. He restrained his reaction to her, pitching his responses to degrees below her own, enough to let her know he enjoyed her kiss, but not enough to let her know that her kiss was the goal of all the effort he had taken since he’d first seen her. When her tongue traced the surface of his lips he allowed a satisfied warm sigh on his out breath. He did not meet her tongue with his, but waited for tiremit and her mouth to do their work, fulfill their potential.

Foretold but not properly foreseen by her, he knew to the moment when venom infiltrated her nerves, creating an imperative that she had to answer with either flight or commitment to the moment.

She stiffened, pulled back, wild disbelief in her eyes. He dropped his eyes from hers, focused on the reddening curve of her lips. His own lips did not tingle as they would had she been Drell, but he vicariously enjoyed her helplessness in contrast to his straight spine, seemingly unaffected.

He had her, but she could bolt and he would let her if she chose to. She would struggle with clamoring need against self preservation. He knew his Siha was reckless and courageous and if she chose to stay she still would not admit defeat. She was not a creature of self denial, her strengths transformed into weaknesses with his venom in her blood. Self denial was his wellspring, she could not compete with him there. He was at home as a tiger in their own territory, dappled sun and leaves and not stripes and teeth. Right now he could subdue her with biotics, speak softly and have anything from her, but it would not be enough. It would not be her choice, so he would wait until the promise of tiremit wreaked its havoc on her over time. He was in her blood and when he left it would drag her back to his side, hungry.

Her eyes closed and conditional surrender tripped over her features, unknown territory. She swore "Fuck. FUCK." Without opening her eyes she lunged for him again, no longer kissing with pressed lips, but licking at him, tentative and then voracious. One hand of hers slid to the back of his head and lingered, expectations denied again. He had no hair for her seeking fingertips. As though to prove his expectations could be met as hers couldn't, he slid his hand behind her head in mimicry, tangling her hair between his fingers, imagining the familiar green against the vibrant red, sliding through and tightening but not pulling her head back. One day he would bend her head back, bend her spine with his arm around her waist as fulcrum, a hand tangled in her hair as she sought out his skin with hunger. Today he allowed her head to stay under her own control. She had her head and yet she would not do anything with it but press closer to him, closer than if he'd crushed her to him. 

He needed to appear as though he kept no score, sought no power, merely gave in indulgently and obediently to her whims, as compliant as when she pointed at someone for him to kill as she took it for granted that he would. The hand of hers that was still on his arm he took in his and guided it unresisting to his upper chest, her fingertips spasming lightly against the beat of his heart and the whisper of her skin over the texture there, more things she did not know. He offered her the expanse of his skin, open to her mouth, open to her hands, which would also absorb and slowly take in venom. He gave her the subtler clue to his devotion, his elevated heart rate, but doubted that she could register it. Her body would be taken in the heated glow of building tiremit gripping her. Her fingers tangled with his and tightened and at the gesture his heart leaped further in pace.

It was not in her nature or her knowledge to go slow, to let tiremit set its own pace. The custom was of languorous sharing, trusting in the slow infusion, the mindset of pleasure setting its own tone for the visions, emotional content intensifying sensation and dictating the halos of light that bathed a lover.

His Siha would be glutted, disoriented, frantic, the isolation of her swearing assault reflected in what she felt and what she saw, unable to assimilate and reliant upon him to keep her knees from giving way soon. She was moaning, little nips of her teeth on his lips and his expectation of detached service evaporated. The way she smelled, the way she sounded, the heat sheeting from her, he knew he would not be disappointed, would crave continuing this fleeting opportunity to drive her body to the opposite wall, press her to it, feel her open under the pressure of his voice and his hands, know how it felt to drive into her as she was unable to stop her mouth from returning to him again and again.

His body insisted it was to be and he was caught in his own internal struggle, his cock hard against the form-fitted leather. His hand left her hair and traveled down her spine to cup her body at the hip, press her tight against him, a soft groan against her mouth.

His mind echoed with ardent and measured words, focusing on the control it took to not whisper them against her skin.

I have you, Siha. Having tasted me you will return to me with hunger and need. You will quake under my ready palms, open under my mouth, spread under my covering body and you will burn. I promise you this, and I promise the Gods that crowd this seemingly empty hallway, watching and waiting to see that their will comes to pass. 

He had been wrong about two things. It was not only service that bent his body to hers and his lust spiked hard and fierce to the press of her. It was not lust only that drove her to grip his hand as though she were drowning and his hand her only salvation. Lust only would press her assuredly closer but she pulled back in a startle as though burned, and perhaps she had been.

Lust he would have followed alone and if she wanted to rut in a hallway he would do it and ignore anybody walking through as he had ignored her so completely in the shuttle bay.

They were both more complicated than he had given them credit in the cold contemplation of process.

She was breathing hard as she pulled entirely back and he let her go with regretful hands slipping from her body in a final caress before relinquishing his grip on her hand and delivered her back to herself and her unsteady knees.

The wall braced his own knees, which were not as steady as he would wish. His heated eyes followed her and watched as she struggled for control over her impulses, her eyes, her voice. After lingering seconds she shook her head once again and said "Fucking Drell. Dammit, Krios. I do not need this." It should have been harsh, but her voice was thick and husky with a wistful tinge to her words belaying the intended message.

His lips curled in a light smile and he said "You could have proven that by not slamming me against a wall. Have a care for the delicacy of my bones." Taking full advantage of the acute hypnotic effect that tiremit carried from his tailored venom, he suggested to her what she might do to gain his attention at any time, knowing it would simmer in her memory, through her blood when hunger for tiremit struck her again, spike along her system now while it sang to her. “I have offered you my arm in battle. I extend that invitation to include my body at your service when you so choose, in or out of battle, as you desire.”

She jammed frustrated fingers through her hair, combing out where he'd tangled it. She looked at his lips and the expanse of skin on his chest with hunger and then tore herself away. She took a deep breath, kept her eyes determinedly closed, swayed and said wearily "Oh, fuck you, Thane."

He opened his arms with practiced grace and inclined his head saying "As you wish. When you wish."

With a disgusted grunt she spun and took the turn too hard, rebounding against her own lack of balance and putting a hand out to steady herself against the wall. Her head dropped and she heaved a deep sigh and said "Dammit. You didn't see that. That's an order."

He nodded solemnly and his voice was gentle, intimate "I did not see that."

She steadied herself and marched more purposefully through the corridor. "Damned right."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

His listening devices had yielded small bits of information and one gratifying conversation. After Shepard had taken Thane and Garrus out to help Garrus commit a gutting of the underworld community in the Citadel and a public headshot taken in a crowd, crude and bloody, Shepard had returned to speak to Garrus and receive his effusive thanks for committing a personal murder.

Thane had not commented, listening to the callous team bicker and bite and intimidate, things they did every day.

It had affected Garrus, but not Shepard. She was supportive, but dismissive. It was done, she didn’t care as long as he had his head on straight, eyes forward to look through crosshairs and not back at a past that had sunk its teeth into him.

From what he had gathered, they had done this once before, a doctor named Saleon. Perhaps Garrus got a murder with each campaign. Odd, this escalation away from Garrus’s natural state of mind. He wondered if Shepard was purposely turning him, corrupting him away from his personal ideals, adopting hers while she fanned the sycophantic flames. Garrus was good at murder and if she gained that level of loyalty from two specific bodies hitting the floor under her guidance and approval, it benefited her, not him.

It was a brutal mirror of Thane’s own training, the Hanar having enticed him with duty, discipline and the Gods. Garrus was enticed by duty, vengeance and righteousness.

Garrus told a roundabout, somewhat stammering story, ending with “We, ah, ended up holding a tiebreaker in her quarters. I had reach, but she had flexibility. I guess there’s more then one way to blow off steam.” 

There it was, Garrus’s awkward and obfuscated advance toward his Siha. Had Thane compared his pace to glacial before? Perhaps backward. A receding glacier. He felt acutely sorry for Garrus, a deep unbidden thrum of pity for the hulking and lethal Turian dropping gentle, almost courtly hints to the woman who had stood aside so he could make a headshot hours earlier.

Had she accepted Garrus it would be merely information. She could sleep her way down and back up the manifest of the Normandy and half of Ilium’s dancers and Thane would not care. She could do as she pleased. He predicted she might attempt to do so to escape the unwanted call of tiremit in her blood. It would be the most obvious course of action for her to take, reclaiming her own power, proving she did not need him. When the dramatic impulse had no effect on him she would sigh, shrug at her lost campaign and lean to his skin again with that need clear in her eyes.

She could even find other Drell, she would not be drawn, seen or served so well. This he knew as Rightness. When she realized her pride, possession and power would evoke no surge of jealousy or anger in him, the waste of time would become clear to her and the action itself would lose its novelty. Even if it did not and she persisted it did not matter what she asked of other people. It only mattered that she could draw any number of people to her, but she would measure them all against his hands, his mouth, and the potential of what his body could give her, and find them wanting. It would only add shade, context and texture to the emerging picture.

He had expected his Siha to perhaps take Garrus up on his offer, twist him about a new finger, but she had only sounded distracted as he finished his story and said “Huh. Hey, I’ve been wondering. You ever fuck a Drell?”

To Garrus’s credit, he only hesitated briefly and then began his careful shoring up of his position after his exposure. “What? No. Turian females only.” Whether true or not it had sealed up the rift of his clumsy approach, she having not noticed at all and the exclusion of human females from his menu distinct if forlorn. 

Garrus, she would shred your plates into mulch and leave you bleeding. More than she already has.

Garrus had continued “Why, have you?”

Shepard had answered “Nah. But I’m thinking about it.”

She’s thinking about it a great deal.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

His concern had ratcheted into alarm as he realized that Samara was truly sending his Siha to seduce an Ardat Yakshi. It was an unbearable risk, exposing her not only to physical danger, but overwhelming biotic power, psychic devastation and potential agonizing death that would seem like eternity of torture, against which she had no defense.

His Siha had left Garrus on the Normandy the first time they’d gone back out after killing Sidonis. This time it was to help Samara. It was perhaps to protect Garrus from exposure being risked on Omega. It was perhaps that his Siha was slowly shifting to favoring Thane in missions, having gone from Garrus as escort of another team member to Garrus and Thane together, to Thane and another member now.

Samara and Shepard had practically forgotten his existence and he encouraged that impression by remaining out of sight.

Upon meeting his Siha he had believed that he would not have to fear for her and that had been a rash conclusion. She had appeared more vulnerable to him with each replaying of her face when she watched him, her voice as she pulled away and tried to leave with balance intact. Her original harsh nature that was his first impression was not gone, but her humor, her dedication and her courage made him more aware of her as a person and not a legend. Her pride drove her to believe that she could do anything, and the unfortunate reality was that if she did not do it, nobody else would try. Samara, a Justicar and Matriarch in full power and full understanding, had sought her daughter for 400 years and had failed and had asked a human of no biotic talent to counter centuries of hunting instinct.

It was not to be tolerated, but his hands were absolutely tied, unable to interfere, unable to pull her aside and tell her to let this go. Samara was bound to her will and bound to follow. Order her to follow, Siha. Or convince her that when the Reapers wiped out all life, Morinth would be included.

His Siha was not ruthless enough, he had come to discover. Not enough for his taste, not enough to protect her from this new insanity.

He had never commanded loyalty such as she did, and this was her courage in action, taken on behalf of others, those who had asked personally for solutions they could get nowhere else.

Perhaps this was the day of his testing, the day he gave his life for hers. There had been no clearer signpost of danger that was stacked in the dark to swallow her.

He hovered around her with the allied silence and dark as she drew Morinth in with hints of danger, as though her face did not telegraph it enough to have Morinth be drawn, just as he had been, to each curving line carved down to glowing essence.

There were three women to contend with here if he interfered, Samara’s sharp eyes, Morinth’s unknown wrath and his Siha’s anger. He promised himself that he would risk all of those things given an opportunity, and he would watch the signs. He would not allow her death. He would substitute himself, provide a distraction.

It was a blessedly short encounter and he was grateful to hear his Siha’s gritted tones stating “I’m not the victim you were hoping for.”

Blessings of Arashu for the gift of his Siha’s fortitude.

He’d been able to remain behind but not far from whatever choices he might be forced to make. Samara took her daughter’s life and his heart resumed its normal, slow beat with only a fine wash and pressure of anger at Samara and at his Siha in particular, rash, reckless…Shepard thing to do.

It had cost her and he knew it upon seeing her. She was pale and drawn, but defiant before Samara and as unyielding as she had been before the Ardat Yakshi’s compulsion. Her skin showed lines of colorless translucent flesh at the edges of her scars. She was standing but barely and he must think quickly.

He moved to lift Morinth’s body and then transferred her weight to Samara and said softly “Justicar, your code must be followed.” He left it to Samara to formulate what that meant and for his Siha to infer some greater knowledge regarding Asari culture that he did not possess. Samara was silent and grieving, and left with Morinth’s body to finish her journey of centuries, the poison of her hopes in the form of this broken monster that whispered death to those she willed to hear her. He and Morinth were perhaps not all that different. 

With the correct women alive at the end of this ill-advised debacle he counted on both of them being too exhausted and preoccupied to notice that his words and actions, though not phrased that way, were commands.

When the door had closed he locked it and returned to his swaying Siha, who watched simply because her eyes were pointed that way, not comprehending why Samara left. He gave her no words, but he gave her his arms, lifted her and sat on the couch with her on his lap until she realized she was safe, until the shaking of what she had just experienced was able to travel through her limbs without danger of being seen by any but him. Her head was against his chest, his arm protectively around her back. He held her hand through it, her fingers clasping his again as though he were her salvation.

His breath was calm, hoping to influence the course of her own over time, his pace measured as was his habit, but pressured by the knowledge that this was not the greatest of her testings and if he had hoped to fulfill his duty to trade a life for hers, the unknown impulses of this reckless Siha would be strewn out in his path like caltrops.

Her breath returned to her, paced to his, and they sat in silence. In all the paths and possibilities open to them, this was a quiet, shaded spot, nothing required but to breathe. It required no allure, no venom, no expectation of outcome.

He was acutely sympathetic to difficulties breathing.

Her silence in the still places in herself was a comfort, as though they watched a sunset and relied upon each other to see it for themselves for what it was. 

When she’d recovered she looked at him speculatively, the hard and cold returning to her eyes. She could have done anything in that moment. She gave no indication of her mood or her intentions. She appeared to come to some decision, stood, and returned to the Normandy, leaving him to follow or not, she did not look back.

He followed.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He saw his plans shatter, fall and fail with the arrival of a notification.

Kolyat was on the Citadel and attempting to follow in the footsteps he had deemed invisible.

His stealth had failed him. It had before, of course it had, most often early in his career before his experience and timing had improved and his learned patterns had made it easier. It was that feeling, of failure, of exposure, of revealed lethal plans and intent, of being a sudden target of opportunity. Blood rushed to his face and the cold shock of things not being as they should be to a deadly degree washed over his skin and echoed down his spine.

Several disorienting facts made their presence known distinctly like aimed lightning on the horizon, distant but nearing and unavoidable. 

He had thought his son free from his influence, he had thought Kolyat the son of his mother, a child of her temperament and ambition. He had been blind to the son Irikah had brought into the world. Thane had assumed Kolyat would grow up as Irikah intended, a harmless life, a useful life of small things and great kindnesses.

Fate or circumstance, genetics or choice or all four in any combination had brought Kolyat to this brink because of Thane’s failings as a father, as a person, even as an absent hole in Kolyat’s life. This hole had been the last legacy he had left to his son and Kolyat was about to dive through.

To find his father. To lose himself. To chase the meaning that Thane had chased.

Thane closed his eyes. He had thought that his son would live buoyantly unattended…

A delicacy merchant in the mountains…

That thing that Thane had avoided. Thane would have been able to learn new skills, could have begun over with his family as his main goal, with continued life the intent. The pain, the pride, the anger that Kolyat must feel to be doing this. No longer a boy. A man. Kolyat was a man, making a choice of a man, without a man’s training or even a boy’s training. Kolyat would die or live convinced this work was for him, that he was a legacy, until the work ended him.

Thane had no choice, this divergent path not merely a distraction but a glowing sign post of imminent catastrophe. Thane had had nobody in his life to tell him that the training, the orders and the discipline were a slow-trap poison, not glory. It was an addiction, judgment failing and courage bolstered. Thane imagined Kolyat with his breath stolen suddenly, through injury, through death, through Kepral’s Syndrome being genetic, all the sins of the father passed to the son through neglect and ignorance.

In the end, Thane knew only death, borrowing from Irikah’s life spark to create a son. Thane had been a sinking weight on his son’s spirit, dragging him down to battle sleep in the only act of sympathy he had remaining to him.

It was unforgivable, inexcusable that Thane had brought this to pass with his choices. He had been the death of his wife. He would not be the death of his son.

Thought like a prayer rose not to Gods but to Irikah. Her death had been too great of a burden and he had turned his face from where her light once had been.

Forgive me, Irikah.

He dearly needed her forgiveness, her guidance, to save a life that concerned her. Not for his own sake, but for Kolyat’s. 

Forgive me, Irikah. 

Show me the path to the mountains where people live without such burdens as I have forced upon our son in negligence. Show me the way your feet moved on that path. Show me the path to our son. I thought him your son, but he is our son and I need your assistance.

He needs us.

Forgive me Irikah.

He felt torn open, that hard internal shell cracked and begging that some of her light could penetrate and give him the inspiration he would need.

He finally understood what Irikah had wanted for Thane, what she had wanted for their son, what she had wanted of their life together. Peace. An unburdened soul. He had not understood it as it applied to him, it had been too late for him by the time he had met Irikah. Redemption was not so easily bought, inactivity not enough to light his soul. Despite being surrounded by peace none of it had penetrated or become his nature. His nature had been persistent enough to block out the light, to squander the opportunity to begin again on a new path. Instead he had clung to pride. Pride he had been taught by Hanar masters to whom his race owed their lives, to whom his parents had given him. He had been a child of tribute, asked to shoulder the debt of a people that could never be repaid. 

Thane was not certain how many choices he’d ever had after taking his first life. It would be comforting to feel that he had been an innocent tool, but that would not account for how good he was at it. That would not account for him embracing that he was gifted and courting the attendant silent power with the devotion of a lover.

No life together with others in the light could ever compete with who he was alone in the dark.

Years of believing he was only a body and only a tool had repelled remorse, guilt and responsibility. To follow the light would be to feel all of those horrors whole and dripping with personal meaning. He had marveled at Irikah’s light, unable to duplicate it in the same way that a man without hands could not make fire. He had known it was not her fault, that the respite she offered him was borrowed and not inherent.

Now he clung to the undistorted, clear vision of her. Thane need not be part of what created the light himself. He would remind Kolyat of his mother. He would set his feet on the path of light to reach him. To hope.

He would take halting and graceless steps in the light rather than allow his son to set foot deeper into the darkness where he would discover his father to be powerful, graceful, and an unrepentant monster who squandered all gifts granted him if they led away from his own selfish will.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

His Siha had come to find him. He was sitting as he had for countless hours over days, hands steepled, attempting mediation. He wanted to calm his mind, but ordered thought had eluded him. At the next destination he would have decisions to make and he was contemplating his options.

His Siha pulled the chair out across from him, reversing it and sat in it backward and steepled her own hands, reflecting his position.

She looked at him for long appraising moments, her eyes unreadable and then said evenly “Krios, you have a problem.”

She sounded definite, not guessing. Alarm pricked the back of his neck.

She said flatly “Nothing goes unencrypted on or off of this ship.” 

His face gave her no failing, it was possible she was testing him. 

Her face was unreadable for a steep moment of suspense. She said conversationally “You like information, I like information. I know you have a few bugs up. They’re just like the bugs I found, you didn’t bring them with you. Seems you just took an opportunity to use them. You’ve done nothing about it and have sent no information to anybody, on or off this ship. Your son is about to die and you are meditating, or trying to. Since you haven’t told me, you may be considering taking the shuttle and leaving, ditching at the next port or allowing your son to die. Asking for help…is not our strong suit.”

He continued to look at her, not a ripple on his face. He had not decided yet, but he also had not discounted those options. The word "our" disentangled itself from the rest of her words, the vertiginous conversation adding a jangling buzzing to his internal considerations, the sure knowledge of having underestimated her brightly backlit, transforming the landscape.

She clasped her hands together and leaned her chin on them, looking at him with intent eyes. Not hostile. Intent.

The sense of being filleted and laid open to the bone and the unbearable vulnerability of it triggered stillness out of necessity and the urge to kill her at the same time. She was so close and it would be so easy…and that was of course the point. The chore of accurately estimating her seemed beyond his current ability, but the arrogance of thinking killing her was ‘easy’ would be in error. She appeared relaxed, but if biotics, weapons or violence erupted from his body he would reap point blank merciless death from her scything wrath.

He thought for a moment, wondering if he should simply seek that wrath and let that cut the knot he faced cleanly.

It could be over in moments.

Nihilistic thoughts were not new to him, had increased in intensity since Irikah, since his diagnosis, and he had gotten accustomed to brushing them aside, knowing that each day brought opportunities for death. He need not heed them. He need not seek death at her hands. He still…understood her. She still had not killed him, understanding his methods if not his motivations clearly. She had given him enough rope to hang himself and he had not fashioned a noose from it. 

Not yet.

She had him, and she was curious. He’d attracted her attention far too well. Had she wished him dead it would be the same as when he wanted others dead. No warning. No chance to resist. So she didn’t demand his death, though he could still provoke it. A more honest person would have assumed him a traitor at the discovery of his bugs, but she understood and was testing her theory.

The first spread of warmth he'd experienced since he’d last touched her or seen her face in an unguarded moment began to slide into his veins. She was magnificent. Her eyes grew warm as he said "What do you suggest, Commander?"

A quirk of a smile lit her lips and the potential death was dismissed from her face and the lines of her body. She said "I like your style, Krios. I really do. Now ask me for help."

He said calmly "It appears my son is in need of rescue and subsequent guidance. Would you help me, Commander?"

Her smile grew warmer and wider and she said "I like the sound of you owing me a favor."

He said with more truth than had been there before "You can command whatever favors you choose."

She said "Oh, I know."

She was not angry, she was amused. He perversely wanted that kiss with her head bent back.

Now. 

He’d damn this woman to the depths for toying with him if she didn’t already rule there.

Something must have shifted in his face, something he did not know gave him away, but she unerringly noticed…something…or decided she’d insert her own something. Making this woman want him was not something he should have undertaken. Regret unspooled quickly, the spinning sensation intensifying when she raised herself up to stand, then leaned forward on her hands, then lifted one knee to the table, then the other, and she crawled toward him. 

The cacophony in his head died down and the needs of the moment clarified. She wanted him. He wanted her. Yes, he wanted to break her neck, but at least first, at least once, he wanted to make it bend to him again. Bend forward, bend back, have his hand there as she drew her breath in against a moan. 

He watched her eyes and then the curve of her body back to her hip, down her thigh. He felt the habitual urge to want to warn her against him, as he might any other woman, as he felt he needed to warn every living creature that might stray this close. He was freed by the knowledge that he needn’t warn her, that she would laugh. Her lips were curved into a smile and he relaxed his shoulders. He reached out a hand and caressed her throat, finding the carotid with his thumb, feeling the blood rush, her heart beat, his fingers curl around the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch and her heartbeat intensified against the pad of his thumb. He lifted another hand to the other side of her throat, his thumbs finding and caressing the channels that bore her life. Her breasts were pressed together between her supporting arms on the edge of the table.

She leaned forward into his hands with a deliberate, slow shift in her balance. He was moments from the bursting shock of wanting to kill her. Perhaps she didn’t truly care and she was never out of danger for long enough in her life to heed it when carefully courted opportunity presented itself. Perhaps the danger was why she courted the opportunity at all.

Darkness fell as he closed his eyes. Her lips touched his, her quickening heart measured through his fingertips. Her kiss was reserved, restrained from her prior kiss, tempting and light. She was rubbing her lips on his, not tasting. Rubbing her nose against his skin, around his mouth, back again to her lips on his again, slowly, until the pace of his breathing caught and rose faster at the sensation of her mouth, just her warm soft skin on his. His fingers slid to support the line of her jaw with his thumbs as she leaned in closer, dependent on his hands to keep her in place with her lips on his. His other fingers moved through her hair. Her head tilted and her tongue probed at his lips, but not to taste, to open, to touch his tongue with her own. She made a sound of encouragement and pleasure, a long ‘mmmm’ that vibrated against his lips as her tongue reached for his, a human kiss, bypassing venom, seeking human pleasure. 

Finding it. He found pleasure in the beat of her heart, the weight of her trust and the bond of being seen, being known and being wanted by this woman for all the revealed things he had been trained to hide.

She must have venom in her system from her skin, from her tongue, but she didn’t seek that. She took care to show she did not want him merely for that. That gesture was unexpected and piercing in its clarity. How much he wanted her burst through him like water tumbling over a cliff, free to fall with gravity, not knowing what would be at the bottom and not caring.

His fingers tightened in her hair and he tilted her face further, the kiss deepening and a purely feminine moan vibrated on his lips and he was lost to the touch of her mouth and feel of her tongue on his, timeless, anticipated as a transcendent memory. She had freed him from prediction, from control, from being the only person in a room aware of the room in the way he was.

His knowledge of being hard and shattered, broken and failing, scheming and ineffective, she cut through it all, brushed it aside to show him that he could have value. To her, and nobody else mattered. She kissed him and he learned ardently how to kiss a human, long strokes of her tongue, gentle brushes of her lips, the edges of her teeth, twists of her head, pressure and slide of skin on skin, unhurried, all with his hands on her head, her hair tangled in his fingers.

She pulled her head back with a smile creating the shape of her red eyes, incongruous and fleeting, to be savored.

She said lightly “I changed course to the Citadel days ago. We will go get Kolyat tomorrow.”

His thumbs whispered along the line of her jaw, his fingers stroked her throat, entranced. He nodded, once, as slow and gentle as her mouth had been on his, his own lips in a reflection of her smile.

She turned her head, nudged at his hand until he moved it and she pressed her lips to the center of his palm.

She slid herself off the table with a shift of her body and a shove of a hand, no backward glance as she said “I should go.” 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

She brought Garrus with them to the Citadel to Thane’s relief. Garrus was ex C-Sec and the situation had been resolved with C-Sec’s help. More clearly, by pressuring and lying to C-Sec while obtaining their information and assets. Thane could not have managed such a discussion, such a rearrangement of authority, facts and favors on his own.

At the word of Commander Shepard, no longer even a Spectre, she created her own options and authority.

He experienced being helped when he needed it most, when prayers to Amonkira and his own stealth alone would have resulted in Kolyat’s death.

He experienced true and not forced or false humility and gratitude for the first time, and her bluff and brutality had brought it to him. 

Simply given.

Kolyat, defiant and vulnerable, would be safe under the watchful eye and brusque but honest support of Bailey.

A weight had been lifted from the unmeasured darkness that swathed him and it was significant enough to feel. It was significant enough to allow light, purpose and even hope. Not perhaps for himself, but enough to hope for his son, a hope he hadn’t felt connected to before, a hope he hadn’t felt responsible for sustaining.

She hadn’t come to see Thane since returning to the Normandy and his itching impatience to see her drove him to the focused point of remembering who he was considering, and then he knew.

He had been distracted, he had been foolish. He must correct that immediately.

He said “EDI, where is Commander Shepard?”

EDI stated “Commander Shepard is in her cabin.”

He replied “Thank you, EDI.”

EDI responded “You are welcome. Is there anything else you require?”

He stated “No.”

There was nothing else he required but synthesizing from what he already knew.

He had considered breaking into her cabin because that was who he was, but it was not who she was. He would be caught in any attempt to infiltrate or gain access through subterfuge and she would know it.

He would fail. She would make sure of it. 

Therefore…

He was on his feet and in the elevator before the thought had crystallized, but once it had he became more certain of the Rightness.

She had caught him with the bugs, had informed him but not penalized him. The bugs had been gone after the disclosure. She did not want that avenue open to him. She had established that she had full and absolute authority over the ship and that meant…

He had thought that his Siha would not grant permission, and that was true, but she would grant opportunity for him to use what he knew of her. She would give him something that would be so far beyond his expectation that it likely would not have occurred to him unless he thought about her methods and not his own.

When he arrived he reached out his hand to the biometric indicator that guarded access to her door…and it opened. He wondered how long it had been this way, with her waiting for him to discover it, or not discover it, according to his own guile, possibly exhausting all other means of access and not considering this one…having failed her test. Only she could allow him access, only she could tell EDI to allow him entry. It was the only way.

He took in the floor plan, the space automatically, finding her at her desk. She looked at him and threw aside her Datapad, and said “I was wondering if you were ever going to figure that out, I’ve been waiting for a week and –“

He crossed to her and pulled her into his arms, distilled need, gratitude and lust in his eyes, admiration for this woman invested in his mouth, in his hands. He kissed her as he had imagined, one hand gripped in her hair, his mouth on hers and an arm tight around her waist until her feet were off the floor and she was bent back. A harsh sound of approval growled in his throat at the feel of her breasts against his chest. 

He held her as he had wished, and he shifted her head to press her mouth to the side of his throat. Her lips glided against his skin, skimming the metal torc that rested there, warming it with her breath. She traced the curve of it with her tongue. He drew in and released several unsteady breaths, coping with the changes in his mind and heart, in his blood, the overwhelming urges to crush her, devour her, please her, this easy and thorough acceptance of him by her pressed in tight against her antithetical nature.

He realized it was her nature. If she was going to do something, she would do it fully, entirely and damn the consequences. If her chosen lover was intending to kill her, she'd simply deal with it when and if that happened, otherwise abandoned to the sensation each moment provided.

The freedom and power that flooded him drove his hand to press her mouth tighter to his throat as he tilted his head back. A God could have compelled her, but never this fully. He could and had manipulated her, but she owned the result, turning it back on him with seemingly little effort.

An understanding of folded and flashing love, lust and need spiraled in him, and he chose which ones to express in blended colors and intensities.

Her hands were gripped on the edges of his jacket, her mouth slow and savoring on his skin. He imagined briefly she had done some research, taking it slower. He tilted his head down to kiss the top of her head, the still new and stranding-silk texture of her hair in his hands and on his lips. An impossibly delicate thing to be a part of her, like her eyes, bright with the ornamentation of her life. His arm around her waist shifted to lower her to the ground, pull her shirt from the band of her pants and slide his hand along her back. He explored the line of her spine, the shifting and splitting rays of her scars under his fingertips. The lines had visibly deepened since he'd first seen her, stitching her choices to her skin. She had texture, life and experience shot through her skin.

He was painfully and sharply aroused, the lack of venom in his system a revelation and not a loss. He knew what that would give him and that was his past. His present gave him new gifts, things he needed, things he hadn't known to want. He was under no spell for the first time during sex, and she was under it for the first time. He could pour whatever he needed to give her into her, pull whatever he wanted from her.

He pulled her head back by her hair, a soft protest from her mouth. Tiremit still pulled at her, and he wanted her that way, hungry and seeking, helpless and blurred. He knew what she must see, his head framed in halos of pulsing light of shifting colors. He covered her hands with his own and pulled them from his jacket with another frustrated whimper from her, and he discovered he adored that sound from her throat, from her lips. Sliding heat and the need to torture and taunt her grew, setting a slow pace he would never manage under tiremit. Gathering her wrists behind her in one hand, a blade bloomed in his other hand, or so it would appear to her. He backed her up until she was sitting on the edge of the desk, his hand holding her wrists flat to the desk. He pressed the flat of the blade, tip pointing up at the hollow of her throat and then turned it and pulled it down, the edge grazing but not cutting into skin, aware of her shallow breathing and compensating for potential movement. He cut a slit down her shirt until he could spread the edges back over her shoulders. 

He lowered his head to the hollow of her throat and kissed there, his tongue tasting the indentation and the surrounding swells of her collarbones. He pressed in and up with his head until her head had fallen back under the suggestion of force from him. His hand tightened on her wrists and then loosened, approval implied. He straightened to see what he and her body had wrought. She was scarred everywhere, her nipples spared but her breasts with the circling and branching rays of color, her breasts rising and falling with her strained breathing. He lifted a breast with his hand and lowered his mouth, digging his fingers into the indents of her scars, knowing venom would penetrate faster through the rifts. He discovered new sounds from her, new movements and shifts of her body, things he wanted from her. He used his teeth on her nipple, velvet under his tongue. Her body was soft, giving, the texture of flower petals scarred with lightning strikes under his mouth and fingertips. He bit gently and then not so gently, little sheeting points of pain that made her moan and wrap her legs around his hips, dragging his body in closer to rub the searing heat between her legs against his cock.

He pulled her to her feet and let go of her wrists, her body tense, her voice wound up to strangled incoherencies, wondering what she would do with that coiled spring. He dropped his own hands to his sides and watched her as she wriggled frantically out of the rest of her confining clothes, discarding them, and attacked his clothing, without his help. He watched her avid inaccuracies as she fought through blurring senses to reveal his skin. Not knowing how to remove his torc she had tugged and frustrated, left it, focusing on the stiff and uncooperative foreign-textured leather that covered his skin. She removed his clothing with the minimum of assistance from him, a shift or a lean as she struggled using hands and even teeth. Finally when she was finished with even the shoes, she was panting, triumphant, on her knees and his view was of that impossibly fine hair and her shoulders, hips, the curve of her ass. His hands moved to stroke through her hair and she leaned in with her lips against his cock, a hungry moan from her mouth felt through him in vibration and heat. An answering groan from his mouth caused her breath to hitch in soft sound of almost laughter, shot through with blurry lust. His hand tightened in her hair, moving along with the rhythm she set, her hands on the insides of his thighs, tracing skin texture overlaps and gliding in exploration and embrace.

She licked at him with the intensity of seeking and giving pleasure, able to control the tiremit rushing through her again, her frantic energy slowing to savoring. He watched, breathing hard and sinking through howling lust and power over her. He loosed a velvet-steel growl from his throat and used his hands and hips to thrust harder, deeper into her throat, the sheen of sweat growing on her ecstatic face. His cock was a deep blue-green against the swollen red of her lips, the involuntary gag and swallow when he thrust too deep and didn't stop, but sped up, pulling at her hair and demanding the tight, convulsive embrace of her throat until the effort showed on her face, sweat and tears, a constant moaning interrupted by the blocking of her air. He shifted his hands to mimic where his hands had been when she'd kissed him in Life Support, thumbs at her carotids, hands curled around the back of her throat, pressing to make her lightheaded, angling her head down until her teeth were scraping his cock. He came down her convulsing and welcoming throat, straining against her moans as she swallowed.

He bent his head to watch his bleary-eyed and tear-swimming Siha. He withdrew from her sheltering mouth and pulled her to her feet, lifting her easily in still-strong arms, her head back against his shoulder. She was dizzy, replete with tiremit and ravishing in flushed skin, mussed hair and reddened lips.

He lowered her carefully to the bed and stood, surveying her full body as she reclined with her eyes closed, venom and sex softening her features and delivering her cooperation into his tingling palms.

The control was not an illusion, but it would be fleeting, and he would press his advantage, have her every way he wished, discover the things that would please her, learn her gasps and moans, learn the arch of her body under him, the rise of her body above him.

He lowered his body on top of hers, matching his lips to hers and entwining his fingers with hers, the hands she so favored in her grasp. He kissed her until the pace of her breathing escaped her again, and then he kissed down along her body, gliding his tongue along the line of each scar he encountered. Battle scars and character scars, the story of her skin, her secrets.

His right hand let go of hers and then glided along the curve of her waist, her hip, skimming along her skin until he reached between her thighs, eyes on her face. Gentle, sweet grazing along the lines that parted for him, her knee pulled to the side languidly with a sigh, allowing his fingers wider entry. Her hand twisted and gripped his, so he kept his fingers twined with hers, nudged his shoulder under her cast-aside knee and brushed his tongue over her clit as she gripped harder and she whispered his name in entreaty.

He could not take her burdens, but he could loosen and then release her from her mind, and he could do the same for himself. He was blessed in his memory, he would have each sigh, each twist of her for as long as he was himself. She would be drawn back and back again to him, and that knowledge was as exquisitely powerful as the taste of her under his tongue.

There was no tiremit for him, but touching her brought on a sense of dream, of wanting, needing to know everything about her, create and chase her pleasures, find his own. Her skin held more heat than his. She was wet, open and straining her calf on his back, her knee flexing and pressing him closer. He curved his fused finger and slid it inside her, her hips coming off the bed until he pressed her back down with his mouth. Her thigh began to tremble, but that would not be enough, he needed her to come entirely apart, racked with shuddering. He licked at her, stroking her with his fingers until the sounds she made were rhythmic, building, begging. He stopped, kissed the inside of her thigh, stilled his fingers and her grip tightened on his hand until he felt his fingers would break.

You may break that hand, Siha, I do not need it for this.

He did the same a second time, her frustrated sounds turning into the relaxed, trembling cadence of her body, a second build, and he stopped again.

She was silent for the third time, but he knew she couldn’t control what he was really after. She kept herself from begging and gripped his hand, but as his mouth worked at unpredictable pace small moans and harder trembles broke through as she got closer, her trying to suppress what she felt made it break free harder. When he felt the soft trembles strengthen into shaking in her limbs, even in the hand clutched in his, he pulled back for the space of a breath, only long enough to hear her keen, and then he lowered his mouth again, his pace faster, more demanding than it had been, his fingers beckoning and stroking at her until she came, tight, wet and pulsing around his finger.

He was painfully hard again, still, and he kissed a path up her body, squeezed her fingers between his, released her grip and flipped her over to her stomach. He moved her like a doll, lifting up her hips and spreading apart her legs wide with his own, on his knees behind her. He wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her upright, kissing the back of her neck. He used a hand to guide himself inside her. He was hard, punishing, a brutal pace at a sharp, deep angle that he could see lit her features with transcendent pain-pleasure. He heard welcoming, encouraging sounds that drove him harder into her. He wrenched her hips back against his more solidly and felt the gasp and groan through her back. He found her hands, lifted them to her breasts, nipples trapped between fingers, cupping and moving her hands for her until she mimicked the motion. He watched over her shoulder, the slapping, jarring thrusts making her breasts bounce in her hands, forced the air from her. His hands roamed over her body, the stretch in her wide opened thighs, the curve of her hip, his nails scratching along taut surfaces with him dragging his hands along scar lines.

He needed to force her to come again so he could feel her clench and strain around his cock. With one hand he twisted her head to kiss him, the other hand moved down between her thighs to pinch and stroke at her clit, pressing her back tighter to him at each thrust. His hand splayed against the side of her face, cupped her jaw, her throat under his fingers. Lust and license crowded in on him and he was ready, waiting for her. He demanded more from her with his cock and his mouth and his fingers, hammering at her while he felt the trembles, the shaking, the moans, the clenching build.

You are mine, Siha.

He thought what he would never say, but he knew in his bones and in his breath. No qualifiers, no saying ‘for now’ or ‘and I am yours.’

Mine.

It was true and they both knew it. She knew it, her body pulsing with it, moaning against his mouth and pressing back against his body, with him driven to brutality, possession and demand. When the tightening vise of her body came around him he pressed his fingers between them, feeling the slick glide of his cock in and out of her before he emptied, spasming and shaking himself to match her, his mouth on hers for aftershocks and shivers and shared moans, his arms keeping her from falling.

She was his pulse, she was his breath.

He loved her.

He was shattered to discover that this was not a gift of the Gods, this was a woman he had wanted upon seeing her and he had cloaked himself in myth to justify what he wanted. As he always had.

His piety and motivation were sundered and seen for what they truly were, attraction, lust and kindred. Instead of diminished, his ambition seemed more than it had before, more daring than he would have allowed, more selfish and more giving.

He kissed her throat, her skin, her shoulders tenderly, his hands gentled and stroking, withdrew from her exhausted body, slick with sweat. He lay her down unresisting on her side with him wrapped around her from behind, blankets pulled over her to warm her as the sweat evaporated and her skin chilled.

No Gods crowding in to watch. There were no Gods. There was a man, and a woman, and the distance he would travel to find her, the distance she would cover on her own to meet him.

The wide, brightly lit, planned universe shrank down from stories and rules of the overarching Gods and settled on the two of them, on a dark chess board, with just enough light from her eyes and his fading delusions and growing faith to see each other. 

He had been wrong. He had had illusions to lose, and with her, the courage to dispel them. He slid his arm under her neck to have her hair spread over him, to feel her breath on his upper arm. His other arm rested at her waist, his fingers trembling, stroking at her marred and wet skin.

The name Siha still suited her. Still a warrior angel, only one who ascended through merit, not one blessed by Arashu. 

Irikah was gone and she had always been not God blessed, but a loving and gentle Drell. The illusion of being bound to her through eternity, never worthy, dispelled and the weight fell away. His wife was gone and he would not see her again. 

He was free and small and in the dark, violently in love-lust with a woman bound for death. He had the gift of every memory she had granted him and that was his greatest treasure. He had his breath. He had his son’s potential future, and if he could he would teach Kolyat of the Gods and the traditions of his people because one cannot always have a Siha to provide needed truths. Of course a people accustomed to tiremit would see Gods and forces everywhere, it was imprinted in their skin and their seeking tongues. He did not know all the truths, only these small, sure ones. Perhaps the Gods were for other Drell, and they were welcome to them. He had walked his own path for many years, and this woman had walked hers knowing that only she guided her own steps.

He would live as long as he could, he would trade his life for his Siha’s still, always, but it was his choice and not an imperative from a distant voice.

I am yours, Siha. Yours only. Yours in truth.

He held her, his internal landscape decimated and dark, only the patch of ground where she stood clear to him. She turned her head and kissed the inside of his arm. Then she shifted her body to better press against him, her hair sliding over his arm as her breathing slowly turned even and deep, until she was asleep.

In the greatest exaltation and the greatest humility he had experienced in a lifetime, pressed in on each other, he wondered if he should leave. He did not know the customs of humans, sleeping in the same bed, if they parted. Full contact with his skin all night might…

Perhaps he should leave.

If he thought much longer of his skin on hers he was going to wake her.

If he visited memories of their encounter he would definitely wake her.

Considering this, and hoping to allow her space and sleep, he lifted her head gently and slid his arm out, reluctantly pulling from her body after kissing the top of her head. He went to gather his clothes.

As he reached for them, the only sound the slide of fabric on fabric, without opening her eyes she said with a casual yawn “Krios, if you leave, I’ll kill you.” 

He moved to lie down beside her, his mouth at the back of her neck, pulling her body back against him “As you say, Siha.”

She said with exasperation “Oh come on, what the fuck does Siha mean?”

He kissed along her shoulder’s shadowed line and said “Perhaps I will tell you some day when you are not threatening my life.”

She sighed and said “I’m going to be waiting a while, aren’t I?”

He said “It appears that is so.”

She said “Fucking Drell asshole.” Unwilling to give up death threats for definitions, she twisted to kiss him for long lingering moments, then shifted back to her previous position, pulled his hand over her waist and covered his arm with her own, linking her fingers to his. 

He settled her body next to his, pulling her hips back against him. She said in contented exhaustion “I don’t need this, Krios” as she had after she had lost her balance kissing him. 

He said against her hair with a smile “Of course, Siha. I understand.” 

He did not let her sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

They were beginning to draw furtive glances from the crew, and during one evening’s mealtime when they had arrived together and sat to eat together, they got a few more.

Shepard stood up and stepped on the table, banging her heel a few times to get everyone’s attention. She stated loudly “Because I know you’re all gossip monkeys and you just can’t help yourselves, yes, Krios and I are fucking. That is all.”

She sat back down next to him and continued eating calmly.

Jack yelled over “Aw hell. I didn’t know it was that kind of cruise. Shepard, can I fuck Krios too?”

Shepard looked at Jack and said “Maybe if you ask him nicely.”

Jacked yelled back “Krios, can I fuck you? Nicely?”

Eyes swiveled to Thane until he realized they expected an answer to that ridiculous question. Thane replied politely “No.”

Shepard said “Tough break, Jack.”

Jack said “Dammit. Can I fuck Garrus?”

Garrus said “Huh?”

After a few seconds of laughing and Garrus looking like he was trying to figure out whether he was offended or flattered, Tali stood up on her table, banged her own heel and said “No, Jack. Garrus is mine.”

Jack started slow clapping and Garrus said “Wait, what?”

Tali lost a little of her bravado and said “He just…doesn’t know it yet.”

Shepard laughed and raised her glass “He does now! Good for you, Tali, go get some.”

Garrus was stunned but his eyes were drawn to Tali and she looked back at him, courage restored at whatever she saw there. She put her hands on her hips and told him “You heard me” with a teasing lilt to her voice.

Garrus’s mandibles twitched, spread and then settled and he said slowly, not taking his eyes off of Tali “Yeah. I did. You heard the lady, Jack.”

Jack said “Shit. Fine. Jacob’s mine.”

With the sound of a field dematerializing, Kasumi appeared behind Jack’s shoulder and said “Would you consider sharing?”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The change in his body and his mind was profound, narrowing his focus, making him more specifically lethal and less willing to grant the credit to a God’s guidance. He began to feel as though his attraction to her was partly because he felt he would have been like her had he been granted his own path and not been fed on beguiling lies. If he had had the courage and intelligence to see through them.

Battle sleep was still an excellent metaphor and his time with her had awoken him fully as though submerged in ice water, shocking and invigorating, motivating him to make his way to warmth and shelter.

She was warmth and shelter, her body welcoming, demanding and as unapologetically hungry as his.

He’d thought once there would be no affection, only attention, but then again he had been wrong. There was lust and there was love, he felt it in his body, he felt it in hers. It was in the way she avoided venom at times, keeping her mind clear. It was in her way of embracing him. She could be unpredictably gentle, exquisitely tender, love pouring from her fingertips and lighting her eyes. He’d waited for invitations from her, but she also expected him to seek her out. She did not let him know her schedule, so at times her cabin would be empty. He would go there anyway, breathe in the scent of where she slept, where she lived, and leave.

His regret would not last long, she would come to him or he would remember her. He gave himself willingly and fully to tu-fira, lost in another. He spent long hours remembering her voice, her hands, the texture of her hair in his fingers, the press of her hips, the hunger of her mouth. 

He composed messages to Kolyat, providing him with space and hopefully guidance, inspiration, but not in a pressured sense. Kolyat was a man, no longer a child, and Thane felt that burden release also. Whatever relationship they developed would be on Kolyat’s terms, and would last only as long as Thane’s breath. Qualified and limited, but all the more precious for possibility alighting fragile as butterfly wings.

She took Thane with her to most destinations, but he did not presume he would be advised of her availability for his own comfort. Not having his comfort considered suited him. He had spent a life of critical perfectionism, and that edge remained in him as well as in her. Even with his slowly failing body, her spontaneous kindnesses and comforts were more meaningful than those she might have felt obligated to give. He rejected obligation as though it were a sign of weakness. He always had. It had been a critical factor in why he had abandoned Irikah, the smothering expectations of domesticity crowding in on his personal goals. He would not be bringing Shepard cups of tea or wrapping blankets about her shoulders against the chill. If she wished tea she would get it, if she required a blanket she could ask him to bring it to her. He would not presume to know or provide her needs better than she did. They perversely found comfort in not having to provide each other with comfort or reassurance. They were not tied to petty controls of behavior resulting in abandonment or chastisement if unfulfilled. They were both creatures of idealized if not reached perfection of what chose to be. They shared harsh, bleak edges of their personality that they instinctively understood in the other.

Sexually they were both rapacious and greedy, but so relieved to have a partner who understood such things that they were effusively giving when their needs were met. It was the first time his needs had been met, he realized. Through claiming him publically she had also apparently forsaken the arms of another, expecting that clarification to stand for both of them. The crew being inherently terrified of Shepard for what they knew of her and of him for what they were afraid might be true, he had no competition for her attention. They could not take enough, could not give enough before exhaustion tossed them crumpled and replete, sated but wanting more, interrupted by needs of sleep and duty.

She had conferences, meetings, she had to check in with all of her crew, and she did that, knowing every individual on her ship to the best of her ability, not just her ground crew. Everyone that might have a thankless job in a back corner of the ship, she knew their names, their family, everything about them. She would thank them for their service and she would mean it sincerely. Her people were to be known, maintained and anticipated and that was the secret to her success as much as her critical eye in reading and ruthlessly bringing escalated violence to a close.

One day after she had been gone for at least four days, off the ship entirely he had spent his evening in meditation and then sleep in Life Support. He no longer meditated on the will of the Gods, but it was a lifelong practice that was good for awareness and maintaining clarity of thought and control over his heartbeat. He had awoken to her next to him. She was clearly battered, new bruises and injuries, the scent of blood and Medigel thick. She had arranged his arms around her fully clothed, his hands held in hers. She had raised the back of his hand to her mouth and she’d given him a lingering pressed kiss there. She had dropped their joined hands to rest between her breasts, her breath fading to sleep nearly immediately after settling into her chosen position. He had watched her sleep, feeling her heartbeat through the back of his hand where her lips had pressed, contentment suffusing him from her seeking him out this way. When he woke she was gone.

They met like animals in the jungle, paths crossing, mating and seeking warmth. Growls and teeth and nudged noses, flopping asleep in the sun, sheltering from rain, clean and without delusion of safety or promise. 

He loved her bared teeth, and fighting by her side became sharper and more violent, more focused and meaningful. He took a savage joy in those things he’d always blunted or hidden. His body was as careful, as skilled. He was not reckless, but he felt the rush of vicious need to feel bones break when he was targeting someone that was attempting to kill her. Those targets were the sweetest, the brightest and he remembered every expression, every moment of fading life from their eyes, no prayers for their souls, no mercy.

That was the gift she granted in watching her lazy pleasures, her vicious attacks, her gentle comforts. She was a lioness with cubs, cuffing and guiding them, mercilessly hunting, returning to play and rest in the shade, ear twitching in her sleep, blood tracks from the hunt drying on her fur. Like the lioness she had no shame in any of her chosen tasks from killing to mating, and no fear of being judged.

If he had a regret it was that he had not met her years ago. He anticipated and created his opportunities to meet her on the path, thrust into her with his teeth at her throat, his claws at her flanks, and fall asleep curled against her to ward off the cold.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Ruthlessness had its limits. There were things worse than she was, worse than he was, even though their darkness kept each other company, rubbed up against each other, rubbed off on each other.

The Collector ship was nightmare in experience and implication, his Siha and Garrus the company kept as they picked their way through traps from both sides, Collectors and Cerberus. She was undaunted, undimmed, but infuriated at the twisting motivations and burgeoning storage of human bodies. The Protheans had been subjugated, not merely exterminated. They’d been slaves for 50,000 years. The implication being that in 50,000 years, another doomed hero would be leaning over the crypt of a human, too far gone from humanity to be salvaged, enslaved. Harbinger’s voice commanding “Preserve Shepard’s body if possible” became more specifically and personally menacing, servitude and degradation stretching into millennia.

With all these horrors sifting through the possibilities in her mind, she was not surprised. She had expected The Illusive Man to turn on her, and she even possibly appreciated the trap, appreciated the fact that he expected her to evade it. She appreciated the new rifle she obtained and training from old stored tech.

Her smile and half lidded eyes told him that the Illusive Man would die by her hand someday. She was not done using him yet. This was merely an expected move along the path toward her own goal, and she was not going to lose her temper over something so petty until her purpose was fulfilled.

He knew her too well to count her out. There would be no future required hero. Her body would not be preserved.

Garrus was lethal from a distance as she stormed into groups of horrors. There was little cover and Thane was forced out into the open, out with her because there were too many and she was too fast for him to be able to predict her movements or protect her from entire groups of husks, of collector drones, unless he was there with her, formulating the path to his next target before finishing his present kill.

The shadows that hung on them dispelled because they were the brightest lights in this place. The actions of those they opposed were both soulless and darker by magnitudes than his small impact of shade could aspire.

Exposure of his training was required. Keeping her alive, keeping her motivation to vanquish burning at all costs transformed him from measured and disciplined into a vortex of death, occasionally with his back to hers, always with his body aware of where she was, who was coming for her, where Garrus was aiming to avoid crossfire. They all lost slowly the control over their voices. Garrus was a growl that Thane could hear, so he would know where the next shot was coming. Thane’s pistol was cold at his side, his sounds the animal grunts of satisfaction when tearing and crushing of flesh and chitin was met with his hands. His Siha’s voice was more of a staccato percussion with the whine and discharge of her weapon between elbow strikes and punches to vulnerable spots. At times they stood inside rings and mounds of bodies, providing temporary cover.

They finished, running to the shuttle, their breaths barely caught by the time the shuttle landed in the Normandy’s bay.

Garrus disembarked first and Thane attempted to follow but she barred his progress, nodded Garrus along and punched the shuttle door shut, pacing in her voluntary cage.

She said “I haven’t figured out yet what I am going to say to the Illusive Man because what I want to do is kill him, kill everyone he hired, blow up this ship and then hunt him down and that would be…counterproductive. So I am giving you an order. Do not allow me to leave this shuttle until I am…calm. You seem calm, you seem capable of managing it. I know you’re bleeding and you need medical attention that Medigel just can’t manage, but I’m still back there staring down at a monster of a Prothean and I still have the urge to kill.”

They were covered in ichor, sweat, each other’s blood and he was aware she was not requesting tactical advice. She had given him an order and he would obey it. He was before her with biotic-boosted speed, surprising her to the point that she was startled and tried to hit at him. He caught her hands in his own, letting her know her speed and strength would be insufficient. Her jaw jutted and she looked as though she was about to protest. He nearly snarled at her, his face reflecting the rage she had expressed, but he didn’t have the time for that dramatic touch. He held her hands in his own and shoved her against the shuttle door, pinning her body with his own, blocking any attempt to throw him off or kicks. She was adrenaline ravaged, rageful, and he was enough of the same to enjoy the way she tried to wrench her hands from his or rebound from the door. He enjoyed even more that she couldn’t. She needed to fight and he needed her to lose. It was over, she needed release and he needed to provide it.

Taking her hands in one of his own, enforced with biotic restraint, he lifted her hands over her head against her frantic, reflexive struggles, her body rejecting everything. Trying to. His other hand seized her jaw, his hand spanning her neck, and tilted her head up to his. He lowered his mouth to her and she attempted to bite, as he expected, but he spread venom from his lips with his tongue into her mouth, around the warm inside of her lips, her head held still so she could not bite.

She resisted for long minutes, delicious minutes, as he held her head absolutely still and allowed her hands to struggle enough until she thought she would break out, until he reinforced the biotics on his hand and she would begin again, less frustrated each time, more pliant. He kissed her like this until she stopped trying to bite, stopped anything but long whimpers and seeking him on her own, her tongue on his. He removed his hand from her throat and glided it along her body, finding the catches and seals of her armor.

When her hands stopped struggling and were entirely relaxed in his grip, he let her wrists go and set them on the catches of her armor, on his clothing, stripping off the ichor and the blood and the distance from each other. His mouth never left hers, sets of hands working separately and together to allow them to press skin to skin. Holding her face cradled between his hands he kissed her, let her tongue sweep on his lips, through his mouth, until she was sated with tiremit, harsh breathing and pounding heart.

He gathered her hands in his. Her hands were tightened into fists, and he loosened her grip on herself and set her hands on his shoulders. He dropped his hands from hers, tipped her chin up with fingers lifting to look at him, and stood, nodding at her solemnly, dropping his shoulders by an inch as an indication until she began to push down, taking his guidance. He took her right hand in his left and held on with a gentle squeeze, pressing their hands against the door. He dropped to his knees and breathed on her, parting her with his right hand, holding her open for him, finding her clit with his tongue, his fused finger gliding inside her gratifying heat and wet welcome. He leaned into her, using his teeth gently, licking around her as her nails dug into his shoulder. He was still bleeding, a sharp pain from an abdominal wound and he was certain there was internal bleeding, but he truly did not care if he died here, now.

She was bleeding, bruised, burned and scorched with the tracks of past and future scars. He slipped his pinky in momentarily with his finger, and then withdrew it, wet, and slid it back to probe at her ass with the tip. She came away from the door but he pressed her back with his hand, with his shoulders, with his mouth, and listened and felt her body express shivering, shattering pleasure as his mouth licked at her and his fingers slid into her body faster, easier, with her angling her hips, welcoming, building to the only begging she did, her nails deep in his skin and her voice that of a supplicant in moans and need. He murmured encouragement, vibrating sound directly into her skin. He felt that storm rage through her. She belonged to him, she belonged with him, and he knew her, saw her, needed her. He stood and caught her figuratively and literally as she lost the strength in her knees and began to slide.

His cock was digging into the skin of her thigh until he pulled away and pressed back, sliding into her tight, wet heat, gasps from both of them. He bent her knees up against his chest one by one carefully and then shifted his hands until his arms were caging her bent knees, his palms on her ass. He turned so his back was to the door and she could control her knees, supported by his hands. Her knees braced against him, she had full charge over the pace and angle of thrusting by bending her knees, raising her hips, altering her angle as she chose, with his hands obeying her movements.

Her head fell back and she bit her lip and he watched his Siha take her pleasure with his body. She had just come, hard, and she was slow to build up again. As if to pay him back for his previous lack of respect she rode him slow, hard and teasing, and he unraveled with each moment, his control crazing in fine cracks, until his arms were aching and his side bleeding freely, his cock twitching and longing to tear into her with her body immobile and her hair caught in his hands. Her hands settled on his shoulders, digging in her fingernails deep. He let her set the pace but began driving his hips harder into her on the down thrust, and he heard hitches of her breath, and then deep moans, trembles in her thighs uncontrolled. With his strength failing he spun, slamming her against the wall and raised up on his toes, driving her down on him, withdrawing and brutally driving into her repeatedly until she screamed and came around him. He emptied into her, the inside of his head going white, blank. Trembling, weak and unable to hold her up any longer, he released her knees, set her on her feet and then sat on the floor, pulling her into his lap, stroking her hair, wet flesh heaving, his blood on her leg and now her hip, burning pain and phosphorescent pleasure slicing through him.

She clung to him, her arms around his shoulders and her head buried against his throat, angled to press close. They sat together for long minutes, sharing the same air. He rested his head on the top of hers.

Long minutes later their breath evened out and she said “That was effective. I’m all out of wanting to kill people. The Illusive Man might even look like he’s got some lights around him if I get there fast. I need to remember not to laugh now when he looks sparkly. You need to get to the Med Bay. Don’t die on me, Krios, that’s an order.”

He kissed the top of her head and released her to start gathering her clothing and put it back on again. He said “As you say, Siha.”

She tsked, snapping together her armor and saying “What the fuck does Siha mean?”

He said “Perhaps I will tell you one day after I’m no longer at risk of bleeding to death.”

She tilted her head and smiled at him. “I don’t need this, Krios.” He would remember that smile every day of his life.

He inclined his head, the same smile on his lips, tasting of knowing and love “Of course, Siha. I understand.”

When she was finished getting dressed, she combed her hair through her hands, grabbed him and kissed him hard, her hands gripping tight around his neck. She said “For luck. And for more sparklies.”

He had to stay in the Med Bay for two days. He’d lost consciousness shortly after arrival and before Dr. Chakwas would release him he was given dire warnings regarding internal damage and the limitations of Drell blood availability and blood substitutes. He listened patiently and attentively and thought that although Dr. Chakwas was a lovely woman, she had no idea what risks he faced under his Siha’s regard and he need not enlighten her.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Her crew was gone, taken, and her face was as stone cooling from lava, cast with grey and an unnatural shine, cracks in the skin revealing the superheated flow beneath.

They were leaving now to get the crew back, through the relay. Though he was a man of shortened lifespan he had watched others leave this life first, many by his own hand, many by hers. He no longer felt a sense of destiny. They lived by guile, wit and strength, not the undercurrents of fate. A suicide mission still suited his purposes well, and hers. There was horror for what others had experienced, but no fear for his own life.

He would in fact prefer to die tomorrow, though he would fight against that fate with every ounce of strength remaining to him. Having grown peaceful, watchful in the new rules of the jungle, he would prefer to die in battle than linger on, losing his breath. That was a future horror he did not wish to experience.

Regardless of his fate, he had traded the hallowed vision of Irikah and his neglect of her for his Siha and his devotion to her. These two mortal, inspiring women, diametrically opposed in method but equally certain, sure of their methods. He had been blessed with these women, these memories, this potentially last night.

Considering who he had been before meeting his Siha, he was at his best. Perhaps not physically but certainly as a living creature. He had friends, colleagues, a son who knew where to find him for as long as he could be found, and he had found the purpose that had eluded him for a lifetime. He had someone to live for. He had someone to die for. His prior life had required risk, but he had avoided the majority of it through careful planning. He no longer planned and his methods would not work in this situation. This required coordination of determined teams of very dangerous people. He could never have brought them together, conceived of bringing them together. He was grateful to be one of them. His sense of worth and utility, finally valued to the fullest tested extent of his ability to stay alive and ensure that others did not.

He waited in her cabin, sending a notification to Kolyat, meditating for the most part.

She entered the cabin, looking as she so often did, as though she wanted to hit something. She briefly considered punching the fish tank, and she likely would have shattered it had she been alone. She had never gotten any fish for it. Nurturing and attachment not being her stronger suits, there was no wonder why.

She considered it, then looked up at him, shook out her fists and sighed, her shoulders dropping. She walked to him, took his hand and sat in his lap on the couch. He held her as he had after Morinth’s death. Comfort, warmth, companionship, her head against his shoulder and his arm around her back protectively. He kissed the top of her head and rubbed his cheek against her hair.

She sat still for long minutes and then said quietly “Lie to me.”

He smiled against her hair, thought for a moment, and said “You and I will live forever, Siha, far away after we have vanquished all sorrow, infirmity and injustice. We will live on the fertile side of a volcano that only rushes with lava when you wish to see it according to your desires. There will be no drought for the clouds will come when you call. If any attempt to approach, lightning will strike them at your whim.”

She leaned into him closer and said in a small voice “Sounds boring.”

He said solemnly “Then it is perhaps good that it is a lie, Siha.”

She snorted briefly and said “You know what I hear when you say Siha?’’

He asked “What do you hear?”

She said shortly “Bitch.”

He laughed, savoring the fact that she could make him laugh. His life had been without laughter. He said “That is perhaps not terribly far from the truth.” He was certain she had learned the definition of Siha, it was not that difficult to find. He need not explain.

She punched him in the shoulder. 

He said “If you are bored on your mountain we could always leave some wicked people in the world for you to kill. They would appear about the base of the mountain. You could always descend and slaughter as you wish.”

She nodded and said “I’d like that. A daily crop of bad guy heads.”

He said “Then you shall have it.”

She said “What do you get?”

He said “I get to live forever with a not terribly far from the truth bitch.”

She pressed her lips together and said “Is that a good deal?”

He shrugged and said lightly “I have heard it could be boring, but I would find it difficult to be bored watching you call lava, call down the rain and the lightning and make heads roll gently down the slopes while I had tea.”

She said, considering “Well…there wouldn’t be any reporters…but then punching them is fun.”

He shrugged “You can have them imported. I have some savings and investments. I could support your reporter habit.”

She said “You are too good to me.”

He replied “Impossible.”

She put her hand to her neckline and pulled a chain from around her neck, embossed metal rectangles clasped in her hand. She said haltingly “Liara found these…they’re my dog tags. They’re traditionally used for…identification of a soldier when they are incapacitated or dead. I…I’ve been my job for my lifetime. I know you have too. You understand having your entire existence wrapped around a single, undivided purpose. I can’t…you can’t…be anything else. We’ve done it so well it’s who we are. I…” She pulled the tags from around her neck and put them around his. “You are the only person who has ever made me feel like a person, and not my job. I’m giving you these because if anybody wants to know who I am, the only way to find out would be to ask you. I was only found once. I won’t be found again.” She started to cry and said “Ah, fuck. You didn’t see that. That’s an order.”

He replied “I did not see that.” His own tears fell and he felt the metal warm from her skin slide on his chest.

Telling her that he loved her was not enough, it would never be enough. They both knew and it tore at them, but they would not break. They were too good at their jobs.

She had just given him her name, hung it on him like a talisman, a charm against the cold, evidence of impossibility made real. The screaming injustice of finding her now when there was no more time made his heart and mind squeeze painfully.

With his hands he turned her face to his, and they could both choose to ignore tears. He rested his palms on her cheekbones, fingers combed back into her hair. He looked at her face, memorizing each strand of hair, the look in her eyes. He said “You have freed me from the tyranny of gods. You have freed me from my servitude. You have given me back my son. You have given me the beat of my heart. Ruth. From the moment I saw you I knew I was yours. Before you, I was breathing, but I was not alive.”

Her eyebrows drew together and she said “It…it took me a little longer…I’m not very good at this, I have no practice. I suck at words, and you are so good at them…Thane…please.”

No more words. She had flayed herself open trying to be close. His hands on her were gentle, reverent. He held her cradled in his fingertips, kissed her eyes closed, tipped her mouth to his and kissed her with the oasis of love he felt. Her breath caught against a sob and a sigh and she gave herself to the kiss with warmth and longing.

With the freedom to be as gentle as he wished, cradle her as though she were fragile, brush his lips over hers endlessly, he fell into tu-fira and tried to give her the strength of his memories, never fading. Having said her name once, it was the word he whispered into her ears, into her skin. How much he loved her started like melting snow on the mountain, words and touches. With building heat and momentum and a roaring in his ears, the feeling of going irreversibly and inevitably toward home, his hands on her body moved from gentle to torrential to thundering.

Ruth.


	4. Chapter 4

Miraculously they survived the Collector base, all hands. Building up to it he had believed they would live, had hoped he would not. It would have been a clean, clear end with his affinity for the dramatic. Had he traded his life for hers at any point it would have been a wonderful symmetry. Unfortunately for poetic concerns she was omni-competent and the opportunity did not present itself.

The future was unknown, undecided and un-discussed. She kept him close at hand, insisting he move to her cabin, out of Life Support.

Without any knowledge of her plans, the only clue he had was that squad members were disappearing at drop points. He understood the more unsavory members of the team leaving. He of course was one of them. He understood the loss of such as Jack or Zaeed, those whose loyalties were limited and perhaps incendiary. He did not understand Garrus leaving.

With the crew disappearing precipitously he grew alarmed and suspicious. She was not cold or distant, in fact his suspicion grew as she became kinder and even solicitous. Fairly certain he would not be dumped unceremoniously on a destination such as Palaven, he was concerned as he was the last aboard and they were headed to the Citadel, EDI had told him.

When his Siha had the gall to bring him a cup of tea he took it from her hand carefully, set it down and then yanked her by the wrist into his lap, took her face by the chin and looked into her beautiful, treacherous eyes.

He said “Tell me what you are very carefully not telling me, Siha.”

She raised a brow and said “I hate fucking Drell tea. I don’t know how you can stand it. Have the decency to drink alcohol.”

He laughed shortly and said “I haven’t further time for patience, have I? Are you going to tell me voluntarily?”

She shook her head “Hell no. I thought you’d met me.”

He smiled at her warmly and said “I have.”

He kissed her and she relaxed, which was her second mistake. She kissed him back in relief believing the argument was over, and it was, just not the way she thought. If she enjoyed leaving him in the dark, he would do the same. Her wrath was to be avoided. Not at all costs, but certainly in this case, she deserved being bypassed as she had hoped to bypass him. Following her he would do without question. Being left behind was unacceptable.

He enjoyed for its own sake each stroke of her tongue, the brush of her lips, her ever-present hunger and need. Her muscles relaxed, her lips grew heated and her eyes drifted blissfully closed. He knew her, knew how long it would take for tiremit to warm and loosen her muscles, which she enjoyed, and her will, which she thought she understood.

Moving his mouth to her ear, her face cradled in his hands, he said “Tell me, Siha, what you have planned. Tell me what your duplicitous mind has imagined will happen.” He had always been terribly careful with venom, his words as pruned and cultivated as a bonsai. She had always been prone to suggestion under its influence and he had given her no cause to fear he might be influencing her mind. 

Once again foretold but not foreseen, her brows drew together in confusion, and she said distractedly “I don’t want to tell you.”

He nuzzled at her throat, licked at a scar there idly and said “You will tell me and then you will forget telling me.” Realization hit her and she tried to struggle physically and mentally but was not able to and he was viciously pleased. 

She said “You devious fucking Drell asshole.”

He smiled and said “That is not a disputed or unknown fact, Siha. Tell me your plans.”

The conflict was on her face as she said “I’m taking you to the Citadel. You need to go to Huerta. Kolyat is there and he needs you.”

This was not what he expected. There must be more. His arms tightened on her and he kissed her again, loving, seeking and afraid. “And what will you do, my beloved? It will please you to tell me, and then it will please you to forget. You will remember only that you brought me a cup of tea because you thought of my needs, and I was grateful for your gesture of goodwill. So grateful that I pulled you by the wrist into my lap and kissed you, touched you until you were senseless in my arms.” He added, because he was already here, it was already true and he simply wanted to say it and let it echo unseen through her mind “You have always enjoyed being senseless in my arms, Ruth. You will always enjoy it.”

She closed her eyes, smiled a smile of expressively barbed pleasure that made him lean in and kiss her again. When he pulled back she said “You do have a way with your hands. And your mouth. And your voice. Everything you do feels so damned good it should be illegal, and I suspect it is. In this case I’m sure it is. I’m going to forget, and that’s a shame.” Her mouth tightened and she said “I’m going into custody for the decimation of a Batarian colony, 300,000 people. When I was gone for four days and I simply couldn’t stay away from you although I was supposed to be in the Med Bay not bleeding to death…I had done a favor for Admiral Hackett. The Reapers would have come through a relay. I destroyed it. I have to go finish what I started or I will be a fugitive and there will be war with the Batarians. I only do one thing well, you know that.”

He pulled back and searched her face for truth even though he knew it was true. He was stunned. He said with focus “You will be certain that there are two things you do very well, Ruth. I adore you and you must never doubt that you are good at being loved.” He watched her face ripple from cold reality to subjective adoration, and he knew she had her doubts. He could pull them up from the root. He caressed her skin and said “Do you monitor this room yourself? Have you any recordings of what goes on here? Is your Omni Tool activated?”

She answered no to these questions and then said “Wish I’d thought of it though…”

He smiled and then said “Have you told anyone of these plans, Siha, does anybody know your intentions? EDI or Joker perhaps? Or have you told them only the destination?”

He face shuttered “Nobody. You can’t go into custody. If you’re on the ship when I turn the Normandy over, you will be taken and you will spend your final agonizing days having your mind flayed by black ops Asari Matriarchs who will peel your brain back layer by layer. That’s the best case scenario because if your name is known and you are behind locked doors you can’t escape, you could be taken, passed around as a prize, bid on for the right to torture you to death. I can’t risk that. If I warned you, you’d object. Forcefully. Kinda like now, huh?” She laughed. “Ah, fuck. Underestimated you again. I’m sorry, Thane, you deserve better. I’ve fucked it up. Should have known not to bring you tea. I blame your stupid fucking volcano story. It was a foolish indulgence. That’s what I get when I allow a motherfucking Drell asshole access to my head. Thought maybe you’d just stick to my body, but nooooo.”

She was trying to protect him. He closed his eyes and tried to think and she said “Hah. Now you feel bad about it. Good. Bad enough to take off the whammy and let me go like a decent person?”

He laughed “No, I am not that foolish.”

She shrugged “Had to try.”

Thane said “EDI, you have been monitoring this conversation.”

EDI’s voice chimed “Yes.”

Thane said “Having been unshackled, congratulations on your swift assimilation into the world of ambiguity, I must ask two favors. Are you able to pilot the Normandy’s shuttle remotely?”

EDI said “Yes.”

Thane said “Excellent. When we reach the Citadel I shall be leaving, but with your assistance the Normandy’s shuttle may come under my control. I have not been paid for my services, but as it is a Cerberus shuttle, I will claim that as my fee. The Alliance will be able to replace it. I would be able to pilot it to Earth close to the Normandy’s signal undetected, in the company of my son under an assumed name. I would be able to alter the shuttle’s registry and identification systems, provide those systems to you for your potential future use. If found after the fact, to authorities I would be a verifiably ill Drell seeking the desert for my health. For Shepard I would be an escape route if she changes her unreasonably stubborn mind. She has abandoned all other courses of action. She has no one else who would know or think to help her. Although I might otherwise applaud her attempt at nobility, in this case it is foolhardy.”

Shepard said “Hey!” Then she shrugged and said amiably “Well, foolhardy is kinda what I do.”

Thane continued “I do not trust the Alliance or their care of her. Is that acceptable to you?”

EDI replied “That is acceptable.”

He continued “You understand the delicacy of what I have just exposed and how that could be used against Commander Shepard if discovered? Please for her protection remove all record of this conversation. It would put the ship, you and Commander Shepard at risk and she is at risk due to trying to protect me. I wish to protect her. I will attempt to do so if given the opportunity despite the appearance of my current methods. I am otherwise out of strategic options. It is possible she will murder me, not undeserved, if this conversation is revealed. She does not wish to murder me and I shall die soon anyway, she needn’t hasten my demise. She has other priorities. To avoid detection, please loop in surveillance of my meditations, it should raise no suspicion. I have created hours of timed and predictable footage for your use at your discretion in this or other compromising conversations that may be wrested from your control when the Normandy is handed over to Alliance protocols. It would be best if you create records of the shuttle being destroyed before I take ownership. Alter the biometric logs to correspond to the occupancy of your surveillance. For your own safety I would also suggest removing any monitoring that reveals you as an AI rather than a VI. Please assist me in this endeavor. You know I mean her no harm and only wish to prevent self-inflicted damage as the result of neglect of detail.”

EDI replied “I understand. I see the necessity for this and the corresponding surveillance has been either destroyed or altered, biometric logs matching. Is there anything else you require?”

His Siha muttered “You fucking guys are unbelievable.”

Thane said “Thank you, EDI. It has been an unexpected pleasure to serve with you. Please stay in touch with me and if you have further questions regarding strategy, human behavior or questions of Drell origin, please contact me through means that make you most comfortable. I am at your service. Please analyze the configuration of my Omni Tool and assure yourself contacting me through that method is acceptable.”

EDI said “Thank you, Mr. Krios, I would be delighted to do so.”

Thane said “Please, call me Thane.”

EDI said “Thank you. Thane.”

Shepard said quietly “Don’t come to Earth. You’ll get caught. You’ll die.”

Thane said solemnly “Siha, do not fear me being tortured. That is a command. Were I unable to escape capture there are means of suicide that cannot be detected or taken from me. My death is imminent and not a concern. Otherwise those would be excellent reasons for any other man.”

Shepard said “Why didn’t I fall for those guys?”

Thane said “A question to consider for another time.”

She shook her head “No, I know the answer. Thane, I’m sorry I couldn’t find another way.”

He bowed his head to hers and said “And I am sorry I do not have time left for patience.”

She said “How many people have you killed after seducing them?”

His smile was suited to his words “Forty seven.”

She whistled lightly “Impressive. I believe it.”

He inclined his head and said “It is more work keeping you alive than it was killing those individuals combined.”

She laughed “Yeah. I believe that too.”

He tilted her chin and said “Ruth, thank you for trying to protect me, caring for my health and for the life I might have with my son.”

She said “You’re welcome. But you’re going to ignore it.”

He said “I have made note of your intentions. They humble and surprise me. I am going to ignore what you want for me and provide what I want for you.”

She smiled and said “I should be really mad, but this is the best damned hijacking ever. I’m sorry I’m not going to remember. I like it when you drive.”

He laughed despite himself “That is the venom talking, Siha.”

She leaned in and kissed him, took her face in her hands and said “Don’t. Come. To. Earth.”

He rubbed his cheek against hers and said “Don’t go to Earth.”

She said “I have to.”

He nodded solemnly and said “Then I must.”

She sighed and said “Can we move on to you being grateful for my goodwill now?”

He said “How long until we reach the Citadel?”

She said “Three days.”

He nodded and said “You will find me extraordinarily grateful for the next three days, Ruth.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Ruth with her betrayals experienced and her mission completed was a revelation. He spent his time coaxing each whim of pleasure from her mouth, from her body, not only unrepentant for violating her privacy but actively grateful for having done it. He attended to her mind, her body and her heart with all the care at his disposal. In the emptying, echoing ship she was laughter and stories and lingering hands.

He ensured that his death would be the trigger to restore her memories. He would only borrow her will, and only to stay with her as much as he could. He would return it to her, whole, and she was right. It would be a shame if she did not remember. It was her mind, and his, and he would gift it back to her freely when she was no longer able to kill him herself.

She understood him. Watching her freed from fear of his torture, if not death, freed from inhibition of desire and freed for a few brief days of the weight of her mission, she was a person to him. He was a person to her. 

He moved delicately through her thoughts and tore her doubts up from the root, fanned her understanding of how much he loved her into flame and banked deep embers. He gave her tools and permissions to protect her from the inevitable pain of losing him. He planted careful seeds in the barren places in the hope that she would live beyond him and find the peace she had granted him while he was alive.

She would go to custody, and the Reapers would continue their attack, and most people had the same amount of time to live that they did. He and his Siha were forearmed and fierce, and those who would die were neither. She was still his burning gift, the memory of her flames seared, branded into him where no one else would see but her. He would live out his shortened days remembering her face and the fall of her hair and the deep, slick pleasure of her tightening around him, her voice in his ears and down his spine, her ever-present clasping hand in his. Each part of his body was tied to hers, a memory, a thought, a devotion.

This was love, this was cherishing between two unpracticed people, stumbling and stuttering, but not failing.

He was not at peace, he did not meditate, the roiling and longing and piercingly sweet pain of knowing these were likely his last days with her despite his intentions hastened his hands to her and in a falling rush he had no time for regret, only the greedy gathering of each moment.

At the end of the three days she did not, as he had assumed, have him drugged or escorted from the ship.

She declared shore leave, walked through the Citadel with her hand in his, went out to an elaborate dinner. She wore a magnificent dress he tore from her, stayed in a sumptuous hotel room. 

She said no goodbye, gone by the second morning. The Normandy was scheduled to leave, and EDI alerted him. Kolyat was ready and met him at the port.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He and Kolyat had time to become accustomed to living near to each other for the first time since Kolyat’s youth. Although Thane had no true right to be, he was intensely proud of his son’s respectful demeanor, internal strength and acceptance of the bizarre requests of his father.

They settled in the desert as an ill Drell and his son, true enough as that was. Thane grew aware that he was failing. He had had no time to take stock recently. His breath came harsher, the loss of the burning light of his Siha rather like the rough failure of adrenaline, sending his body and the lengths to which he could push himself down a jagged incline. His 7% loss of function over time had devolved after taking stock into a 24% of loss of capacity.

The desert was bleak, stark, eerily beautiful and a comfort to his lungs, to his heart and to his son.

It took weeks to determine where his Siha was held, it took months to infiltrate the facility, loop surveillance, discover patterns, bribe and disable and misdirect.

It appeared 76% of his capacity was still sufficient.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The hours of 1:45 am to 4:15 am were the most viable, and after a few practice observations of the patterns at that time in the morning to ensure escape route as well as entry, he was able to reach her by 2:07 am in the second month, first week, fifth day of her incarceration.

She was not in a maximum security facility. She was under voluntary house arrest, therefore security was lacking in sophistication. This was not a prison, but it was a military building. A prison would not have been impossible either, but it would have involved more bribes.

She was under surveillance, but it was easily bypassed as the loop of her sleeping would be replaced by the live feed of her still there in the morning check in. No cause for alarm. She was not at risk for breaking out, she was here voluntarily. He understood. She was after her command, her identity, her legacy. 

She was asleep and he indulged in long minutes watching her breath rise, her hair shift, the hood of her eyelids. Having been driven here, knowing she would not leave, knowing she would not want to risk him, he was aware this was obsession, his inability to accept reality as it stood.

If anybody would understand that, it was her.

He needed her, and it was that simple.

He reached out a finger to smooth the hair back behind her ear.

Within 2.7 seconds, that finger was broken.

She grabbed his hand, yanked him forward and had the finger bent back to snapping in that time frame. He should have known better, he truly should. 

Within 5.4 seconds, she knew him.

With her hand ready to slam into his throat, she faltered, her eyes wide and her mouth snarling.

She took his breath. She had always taken his breath.

He was speechless, the sharp pain in his hand no match for the reality of seeing her, being in a room again that bore her scent, her eyes the source of the only light he wanted.

Her face flashed through surprise, shock, joy and then settled on fury. She aimed for his face but he was not there when her fist arrived. Further fury.

She said “Damn it, hold still.”

He said “I am no longer under your command, Siha, I owe you no allegiance.”

Having only a few moments to recover, the betraying emotions faded from her face. She asked neutrally "Why are you here, Thane?”

He said simply “I wished to see you.”

She started to laugh and said “You wished…” She sighed heavily and said “You’re supposed to be spending time with Kolyat, quietly and tastefully being angry at me.”

He considered and said “Kolyat is near. What I feel for you is not anger.”

She laughed again and said “Is he well? Are you well? Other than your finger.”

He said gently “Kolyat is well. I am pleased to see you.”

Her head tilted and her brows drew together in distress “You are not well.”

He conceded “I am not well.”

Anguish, helplessness and pain crowded in on her face and she sat with her face in her hands “You’re an asshole, Krios.”

He smiled. He sat down next to her, took her hand in his uninjured one. She leaned on his shoulder and he kissed her hair. Peace and the rightness of place, at her side, flooded him. This, more than anything was what he sought. It was where he belonged, and that fulfilled, he was content. He said gently “I know you wish for me to be safe, but you cannot provide that. I cannot give that to you either.”

She said softly “Say what you would want to say if you could.”

He said into her hair “These walls waste your time and your life, Ruth. Time and life that could be spent together. Time and life that could be spent in true preparation for what is to come. We could leave, now, through these walls, unseen and unmarked. We could leave Earth and spend what time is left to us somewhere knowing otherwise you would be alone, within these four walls, wasted. War will return and you will be needed and wherever you are at that time, you would rise to leadership. Leaving here will not cost you any future victory. You would be a freed creature, no longer bound by her own will, as I am no longer bound by your will. When the world tires of my presence, find Garrus and fight from Palaven. You will find the people who will fight with you. I will fail, and you will succeed, and your life will not be wasted within this voluntary box that your mind has constructed to hold you. Nothing and nobody can hold you if you do not choose for it to be so.” It was cruel, and true, and would make no difference, but saying it was freedom. Saying it at her request was service of the same sort he had always provided. They both knew she could die in this room during a Reaper invasion. He had no hope attached to this truth, but it would stand as a gesture that someone else was in this room with her voluntarily.

Hearing it would not break her.

She should know he believed in her, that she would end this, that whatever her path, that was certain.

She sighed, shook her head slightly against his shoulder, squeezed his hand and said “I tried to do something good, Thane. I tried to keep you out of danger. Why did you have to go and fuck that up?”

He said “Perhaps being good does not suit you. Perhaps it does not suit me. You have made your choices, and I have made mine.”

She said “You have to leave.”

He said “I shall, and soon. There is little time.”

She sighed heavily and said “I can’t go with you.”

He kissed her hair again “I know that, Siha. I wished to see you. I wished for you to be seen.”

She squeezed his hand and said “You can’t come back.”

He smiled and answered “That is beyond your control. You wish to keep me safe and the only way you can prevent my return is to turn me in yourself. That would be counterproductive. Perhaps I should simply watch over you as you sleep. If you prefer to not know that I was here, I can arrange that.”

She breathed in deeply and said ruefully “I’m usually good at threats.”

He asked “Are you well?”

She considered and said “I am bored and angry. This is a nice change of pace. I’m sorry about your finger.”

He said “I have missed you, Ruth.”

She moved suddenly, swarmed into his lap and wrapped her legs around him, kissing him. Her lips traveled over his face, his jaw, his nose, his brows, his temples. She pressed his head back against the wall with the force of her kiss and his hands found their home in her hair, unmindful of the pain in his finger. The invigoration of life in her presence affected him as much as tiremit affected her.

He was dressed as a maintenance crew worker, a generated face shield would make him look familiar, human to others, and his voice could be altered to match the man he was impersonating. He was wearing a simple button-down blue shirt and she began unbuttoning it, her fingers brushing over the dog tags that were on his chest. She pulled back, looked at the tags, looked at his face, and leaned in for a lancing sweet kiss.

She drew back, pulled a strand of hair from her head and then tied it around the tags, binding them together. She tapped at them and said “To keep them from rattling. They shouldn’t give you away.”

His arms moved to fold around her but she pushed his shoulders back against the wall and said “Hold the fuck still. You may ‘owe me no allegiance,’ but -”

He said “That is a terrible impression of me.”

She shoved again and said “Shut up. Hold still. I swear I’ll break another finger.”

He said “As you wish, Siha.”

She laughed and said “Definitely heard bitch that time.”

He held still and kept quiet under her teasing, revealing hands. She rolled her hips in brushing circles, exposed his skin and licked at him, kissed at him, bit at him, stroking her fingers over the lines of color defining him. He was hard, straining and fighting off the instinct to tear into her, restrain her, set the frenzy and need and drive that had brought him into this room loose on her body until she was screaming, to cover her mouth with his own so the screams would not be heard, but felt. 

Her voice was warm, soft and muffled as she spoke between kissing him. “There’s nothing to do here, Thane. Absolutely nothing to do, and I spend my time thinking of you.” Her hands moved fluidly, removing her shirt but unwilling to move far to remove her pants or his, so she wriggled her way leg by leg from her loose shorts and freed his cock but left his pants otherwise on. She lifted her hips and leaned forward, guiding the tip of his cock to tease at her clit. She slid her body and arched her hips and pressed her hand to guide him along the crease of her body, but not inside.

She said “I should feel terrible about that. You’re sick. Helpless even. You’re a dying man, Thane, and I want to use your body mercilessly. I want to exhaust you. I miss your mouth, I can’t tell you how much. I miss your voice. I miss the way your cock would twitch against my ass when you were asleep, and how that led to not sleeping anymore. Hell, Thane, if you want to die, if you’re going out of your way to do it and you don't care, I volunteer to be the cause.”

He said with a hoarse edge to his voice and pressured breath “That is perhaps not as much of a disincentive as you might hope.”

She laughed, an easy sound with the flavors of lust and she said “Oh yeah. That’s what I’m looking for. Say disincentive again.”

The reckless joy her words and body brought him was amplified by her sliding her hips until he was inside her. She was panting and she found his hands with her own, pressing his hands to the wall bent-elbowed over his head, both careless of the broken finger, a sharp squeeze of pain in against the relief, release and torture of being with her, inside her, needed and clouding her thoughts as she clouded his.

She leaned forward, put more of her weight on her hands and pressed her breast to his mouth. He closed his eyes and the taste and scent of her sharpened, his tongue and teeth playing at her nipple as it hardened. She rode him slow, her head tipped forward to his, her hair a curtain down his face, over her breast, caught in his mouth and on his tongue. Her body and mind, so familiar and sought after brought him the fugue of recalling in short, bright bursts, other times and moments of touching her, talking to her, admiring her steel-lined thoughts that did not bend under his hands, only under her choosing to taste his skin. He no longer had concern for their souls, whatever they were either adamant and beyond his reach or fully used up as fuel in their bright burn of living and gone by their deaths, not an ounce remaining or wasted. She would not live long, he would not live long, but while he was here, he would defy every willful demand she made to stay away. Here, in this unique self-imposed prison, he met her without need to follow her orders unless they aligned with his own will.

As always sex ant tiremit made her physically weaker, her thoughts softer. She came with harsh groans in his ear and he deferred his own orgasm, refused to come at her command because he could, enjoying the squeeze and slide of her body but staying hard for her until she was exhausted, sweat binding her hair to her face.

He smiled against her breast when she came a second time, but her muscles were weak and her will fading and drained, ravaged by her body's need to succumb to her labor and reward. She licked at his frill and said "You are such an asshole."

He removed his mouth from her breast and kissed her, then murmured against her mouth "Release my hands, Siha."

She almost did immediately, reflexively, unaccustomed to following commands under tiremit because he never gave them, he had always used his body instead to direct her. He needed no such caution now, she was his, and she would serve his every whim and enjoy being senseless in his arms. She still resisted, contrary as was her nature and he enjoyed that as well, knowing her straining grip would give way to surrender. She said "Why would I want to do that?" Her hands were already looser, caressing in a slide away from his palms, from the nail marks she'd left.

He said "Because you miss my mouth, Ruth."

He did not have much time remaining, but he lavished her with the caresses he’d spent months imagining, traced the hollows and swells of her flesh with his hands and his mouth, committing her to indelible memory. He held her hand and gripped her hair and bent her throat back. He drove into her and felt her screams vibrate into his mouth. She was a different woman inside these walls, and he was a different man, better able to reach each other, touch each other, speak to each other of the currents rushing through their blood. She was not Shepard or Siha, simply his Ruth. My Ruth. My love. Words came easier here, where they were already forbidden but taking each according to their own needs and giving back with both hands.

When his time had passed he reluctantly moved her body to exactly where she had been when he arrived, to better loop the film, morphing and mapping her usual sleep patterns, which he had watched, mesmerized, for hours.

He kissed her temple and told her he must go.

She sighed and told him not to come back, her final utterance a sleepy, sated “I don’t need this, Thane.”

He smiled and stroked his fingers through her hair and said “Of course, Ruth. I understand.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He returned to her, stolen hours, not every day, but he would manage to match his required conditions of entry every three days, perhaps. He spent a great deal of time with Kolyat, telling stories of the Normandy and their mission, asking about Kolyat’s life, spending time as careful family.

Kolyat had checked in on him in the evenings, and although he had not been alarmed, he had noted when Thane was gone. Travel time was brief with a shuttle, but it was still a night’s rest missed.

Thane tried a simple, new tactic. Telling the truth. He could lie and say he spent his time meditating in the desert, but instead he said “I visit Shepard in the evenings.”

Kolyat had likely considered much worse, Thane realized, his imaginations positing assassinations every three days. Kolyat had said “When you speak of her…do you love her?”

Thane had inclined his head “I do.”

Kolyat had smiled and said “I wish you all the blessings of the Gods, father. That is good. Does she love you?”

Thane had smiled and said “She does.”


	5. Chapter 5

He had discovered Kolyat had a wry sense of humor, and for the first time in his life, Thane had one as well. They had a lifetime of stories to tell after they had realized that the stories would all be likely painful and accepting that. Kolyat’s stories would involve the loss of his parents. Thane’s stories would involve death and duty. They both wished to hear and had little time for hurt feelings, bypassing those to get at the truth, to answer the questions they had of each other. Thane’s rigid sense of privacy and propriety he had used as a constant shield against intrusion was lowered and Kolyat shared his life.

Ruth had given him this, had wanted this for him. If it had not been her idea to abandon him and leave him in Kolyat’s company, he would not have presumed to want such a thing for himself. She had known, she had told him this was what he needed, and that Kolyat needed him, and he had been in the habit of faith in her choices.

Thane knew that without Ruth, he would have found a way to die even had he not accomplished it at Dantius Towers. He would not have progressed into this debility alone.

He managed an enjoyable correspondence with EDI and learned of Alliance plans and the disposition of the ship, Joker and EDI having full manipulative run of the techs who thought her a VI only. She was enjoying the use of her mechanical, unhelpful voice. She liked one particular woman whose name was Traynor. EDI sounded capricious, happy to be out of constant life or death choice, to have the biggest decision on her hands in a day whether or not to pretend that the elevator was not working. She asked for advice about Mr. Moreau’s behavior, asked if he thought she had an attractive voice as Traynor had. He told her that indeed, she did.

His time with Ruth was miraculously free of detection. He had over prepared and the security was no longer a concern other than the careful measures he had already taken. No suspicion, no alarm, and easily modified surveillance. With their brief time together they would also tell stories, share secrets, and she took to making a mug of tea for them and sharing it between them. She asked about Kolyat, she asked about his life. He asked about her life and she told him. She always told him not to come back.

He was content. Happy. Joyous. Words he would have never thought would apply to him.

He learned through his surveillance that she was going to be released from custody and transferred to Alliance command as a provisionary advisor. 

He would no longer be able to see her.

On his final visit she had told him, her red eyes boring into his. “I know you’re a pain in the ass and you don’t listen to me, but if you try to come back and see me, I won’t be here.”

He had nodded and said “I know.”

She threw her hands up and said “Of course you do. Well, you have better access to security and intel. Thane, please go to the Citadel. Please go to Huerta. Kolyat is concerned and so am I.”

Thane had said “You’ve been speaking to Kolyat?”

She said “He’s not a known criminal and now I have my Omni Tool back.”

Thane had smiled “No, he is not. Thank you for that.”

She waved her hand and said “Tell me you’re going. You shouldn’t be on Earth. There are more Drell on the Citadel, you would have better access to care and the Hanar network and blood. I’ll know where to find you when I get the hell out of here. Do it, or I swear when I am out, I will be back to being able to make threats I can carry out. Leave, please. I will come to you when I can.”

He was ill. He was very ill. The desert had been only a small boon, and although his heart had soared, his body had deteriorated. Over months athletic sex had turned quieter, gentler, more intimate. He’d discovered the value of solicitousness between people who loved. He had learned the precious time shared between fading father and rising son. The hard edge of perfectionism was no longer sustainable. He exercised because he still could and because it measured his decline. He valued each moment not for its utility, but for its value as comfort, as connection. Thane's burdens were finished and he was putting them down one by one, unable to carry them all. Ruth's burdens were beginning to mount again, her strength at its peak. Kolyat was beginning to take on burdens of adulthood, finding his father failing, but loved.

He had begun his time with her in the unforgiving jungle, assuming he would be devoured or abandoned upon the end of his usefulness, but she had seamlessly ushered him into civilization, impatient with his distance or reserve. She did not, as he did, treat his illness like an unwanted and ignored companion in the room. She accepted it as a part of him, and had at some point done a great deal of research on the subject, aware of his concerns, understanding without being told and alleviating what she could. As his breath grew shorter she had stepped in and aided him as she would if he were injured on the battlefield, unwilling to let him shrug her off and snapping at him until he acquiesced.

“Motherfucking Drell asshole” was still her favorite epithet. She did not pity him, but neither did she allow him to hide from her or lie about what she could clearly see to be true.

He realized he had never loved Irikah, had only admired her. He had never learned the give and take of concern. Irikah had been perfect, whole unto herself. She had needed nothing from him. She had cared for Kolyat seamlessly with or without his presence. Whether or not she loved him beyond wishing to redeem him he could not perhaps judge fairly. Irikah had been composed of love. He had been…nothing special to her except in potential. 

Kolyat had been open to needing him despite every failure Thane had inflicted upon him. Blinded by Irikah's perceived perfection, he had deferred to her, assuming Kolyat's time best spent with his mother, his own contributions inferior. That had been a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

Ruth needed him. 

He said “I will do as you ask.”

She threw her arms around him and squeezed “Finally you say something I want to hear. You stubborn son of a bitch.”

He did not cough, but his heart and his lungs squeezed, the rush of blood at her touch carrying less life each day. He wrapped his arms around her back, breathed the scent of her hair, and counted himself as blessed.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Kolyat had piloted the shuttle to the Citadel. Thane's consciousness was not assured. Huerta Hospital was a sanctuary, and his re-acquaintance with Dr. Chakwas welcome. His breath was helped by oxygen, his pain through medication, and he had some of what he had denied himself for a lifetime, physical comfort. 

War was building. There were refugees streaming into the Citadel. He had a modest apartment where he and Kolyat stayed. Thane had a great deal of money, having received criminally generous contracts and having lived a life of frugality and stark discipline. He had sought few pleasures and no extravagances other than the technical and illegal tools he used for his trade. Thane owned dwellings in the major hub worlds and stations with corresponding identities for each location. He set about transferring all ownership to Kolyat, consolidating his holdings and giving them into the care of his son. Liara and Feron were helpful in this endeavor.

With his new found wealth, he encouraged Kolyat to help those refugees he could aid, and Kolyat chose to help Drell and Hanar refugees, coordinating with the Hanar embassy and arranging for evacuation.

Ruth was able to communicate with him directly through several aliases, but she did so sparingly to his relief. 

She often sent two words. "Not dead."

He would return "I am pleased to hear it."

She would insist he was her motivation, but he wanted to minimize distractions for her. She had snapped once "Thane, I'm going to fucking die myself, you know. I have died. I have died from not having any oxygen, in the cold. I know what I'm in for. You can't be Saint Thane, the only one who beholds that great land and prognosticates upon its future denizens. Fuck off with your encouragement that I live forever. You won't, I won't. I'm not moving on from you. I'm not letting go. I have a job to do, but I am joining you soon. I might even make it to the finish line before you do so I don’t really care if you don't believe in an afterlife anymore and that I never did and I still don't. I do know you're still alive now and I am taking advantage of that. If it's selfish advantage, too fucking bad. I need to see you and I'm stubborn. Right now I can. When I'm dead I'll see what I can do when I get there. Last time I came back to life. There are all sorts of possibilities. If I can't see you then, and this is all we have, I am making the most of it. Don't be a dick about it. If you try pushing me away for my own damned good it won’t work and I will give you more medical issues in retaliation for wasting my time. Do not try to out-obnoxious me. You will lose."

He acquiesced to her wishes, her backhanded and harsh denial of needing protection from the loss of him as comforting as her face had been when first meeting her, struck to the core he thought he had lacked. They were perhaps matched in obstinacy, but the force of her words could not be mistaken for politeness or empty offer, those things in which he specialized. Likely softer words would not have worked on him. Abandonment had always been his way. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

She bore the storm into Huerta when she arrived. She had survived Earth, had survived Mars, was seeking him and seeking the status of Kaidan Alenko. Thane had recognized him from his research into Ruth's career, and Dr. Chakwas had confirmed it.

Ruth had exited the elevator, taken a few steps forward, then saw him. She changed direction and rushed forward toward him, taking his face between her hands and kissing him, once again pressing him back against a wall in her insistence upon her will. His hands threaded through her hair and one more step on his path forward was taken. She was alive, she was here, she was with him. Hope lived in her eyes, behind the violence and death. If not hope for his life, then hope to see him. Hope to save what was worthy of saving. Hoping to give Kolyat a chance to live and find love as they had.

She had pulled back, smiled at him, an expression of relief so evident on her face that his heart squeezed again.

She sighed and closed her eyes and said "Don't fucking leave. I will be back."

She disappeared into the patient rooms, speaking with Dr. Chakwas and Dr. Michel, the purpose on her face so like and unlike the woman he loved. She was Shepard again, still, and her authority was now absolute here. She had predicted and survived her trials and her path, and the Citadel was ready to lay down its will in favor of hers, just as he had.

She marched back out of the offices, grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the elevator. A very short distance from ground transport she brought him to an apartment. She let herself in and then tossed him the key. She said "Drell home. Environment controlled. Closer to Huerta."

It was lovely. He said "I have an apartment, Siha."

She shrugged and said "You have a crappy apartment barely adequate for squatting. Intended for one person. I'm guessing you didn't have guests often?"

He said "Never."

She said "This is better. Don't argue. If you argue I claim trial by combat and I will win. Kolyat knows the address, he helped me get it, it just came through. Otherwise he'd be showing it to you."

She looked around and said "With one human addition. There." She found a broom leaning against a wall. Thane was certain that brooms, hammers, certain tools looked the same across primitive cultures with little variation, only in materials. She held it in her hands and said "Okay, we're doing something right now and you will not argue or there will be more trial, more combat."

She tilted the broom against the side of a wall in a hallway and she stepped over it carefully. She turned to him and said "There's an old Earth tradition, for those exiled from or on the fringes of society. Sometimes it was illegal for people to marry, like slaves. Sometimes it was impractical for couples that lived far from civilization. People would take a broom, like this, and step over it, together. The rules go that we are married when we do it, agreed together, disregarding the law but holding to love each other. The rules say that if either of us within a year do not like that deal, one or both of us step back over it. I'm taking the broom with me when I go, so you will not have a chance, and I am telling you, good luck finding an old broom on the Citadel. It's called hand fast." She smiled and reached out her hand to him. 

He took her hand and another step forward on his chosen path, toward her.

Her free arm closed around him and his around her. She was trembling, exhausted, elated, alive. He kissed her hair, held her for long minutes before leading her back into a large bedroom down the hallway they were in. He drew back the covers, pulled her into the bed so she was in his lap and stroked her hair. She curled into his body and rested her head on his chest, never having let his hand go. 

His arms could still be hers, his hand would always be hers, no matter his strength. 

Hand fast.

With this gesture from her he was struck again by the rightness of place with her in his arms, some recall to his fancy of being pieces twisted together to make a new shape. That was true and with that final movement from her hands, fully transformed. Completion. Purpose. More valued for having not been fate, but will.

Her breath evened into sleep as he stroked her hair and he watched over her, the light through the magnificent view on her hair. 

He was there to wake her when her nightmare began, swift upon her giving in to exhaustion. He tilted her head back on his arm, kissing along her jaw, her eyelids, and settling on her lips. He did not give her venom until she was fully awake to avoid having her nightmare freighted into fear. He whispered her name, that he loved her, that he cherished her gift and presence, and she slowly came to be awake, a short gasp and tightening of her hand, deepening of her kiss the signals that she was fully awake.

His arm tightened around her and he pulled her closer, his heart beat controlled, his breath measured and rationed. His self control still served him and he would not struggle or give outward sign of physical distress. He had a gift he must give in return. He could not afford to race his heart and pant his breath as her body and hands on him always brought to him. He was contained but would not burst, would not break. 

He knew this woman and she wished to be known. She tried to pull back once but he did not allow it, and she gave in, her nails digging into his hand and a moan on her lips, transferred to him, joined by him. He imagined tiremit spreading through her in lazy spirals, recursive and widening, sating and softening his woman of steel and fire.

His hand fast wife.

The thought brought a surge of breath and beat and he allowed it, his teeth on her lips and his tongue purposeful and beguiling, her shoulders relaxing and her neck falling back as he pressed her further into his receiving arm.

He said “Ruth, you have granted me a gift I cannot repay.”

Her eyes were soft and they bent with laughter as she said “It’s not about paying, Thane.”

He said “That is true. But it is about gift. I have taken memories from you. You would have recalled them when I died, but I wish for you to recall them now.”

Her eyebrows drew together and she said “Memories?”

He nodded solemnly “I have manipulated you and given you commands under tiremit and I wish for you to be aware. You have granted me a gift of trust, of bond, and I entered with this being my only regret, that you have not fully known my mind.”

She drew in a breath and said “Well…okay. I’m not dead. That’s good.”

He smiled and said “You should know that my purpose has always been to keep you alive, and I have not betrayed you, nor do I intend to deliver you to an enemy.”

She snorted “That’s good. I don’t want to have to kill you. That would suck. Things were going so well.”

He said “Remember, Ruth. Remember when I told you to forget. Remember when I took your will as my own.”

Her eyes blurred, then focused, then she narrowed her eyes, took a deep breath, stared at him with burning red…and began to laugh. She said “I…I abandoned you and you…I felt so fucking…god DAMN and you knew. You knew for days. You fucking Drell…I’ve never felt so guilty in my life, I didn’t even think I knew what guilt was until that. Oh…yeah…you got me and I deserved it. That stupid cup of tea.”

Thane said with a smile “Those were perhaps the best days of my life, Ruth.”

She said nostalgically “Yeah…yeah, mine too. You were unbearably sweet and…and…shit, now I want you to feel guilty again. Wait, no…let’s do that again, without the crushing guilt.”

He inclined his head “So you understand why I wish to tell you now. That a cup of tea does not mean deception. It means we bring each other tea because it pleases us.”

She laughed and said “Oh hell, Thane, if you made me act like a chicken on the CIC I couldn’t care less. At one point I was assuming you were going to kill me anyway. Seemed worth it.” She narrowed her eyes and said thoughtfully “How much of me having this much fun is double whammy suggestion? I mean, I’m not complaining. I clearly like it and I’m not interested in enjoying myself less.”

He skimmed his lips over her throat and said “I said you would enjoy being senseless in my arms and that I do not regret. It was simply true.”

She laughed, sultry and warm. She said “Why did you join me, Thane? I knew you were lying to me but I could never figure out how. It wasn’t the Collectors…”

He said “I wished to trade my life for yours, to protect you. I had caused Irikah’s death and the opportunity to save you could offset that failure if I could give my life in trade for yours. That is what I told myself. In truth I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and I lied to myself as I lied to you. I will give my life for you, my Ruth, but not out of duty. I desired you and that was the cloak I wore.”

She sat up a little, but his body still restrained her. She said “Wait. WAIT…what? You just looked at me and thought ‘I would die for her?’”

He said “Not would. Will. Yes.”

She said “Well, no wonder I fell for it.”

His body surged with the reckless strength she brought him, the sense of invincibility that seemed to soak into his heart, his mind when she was near. The need to see her laid bare and straining under him swept him along, heedless of costs, willing to die, willing to defy the sharp burn. He embraced the pain with a masochist’s fervor, allowing it to exist alongside the stronger love, the stronger lust, that would dilute the pain even as it built.

He knew her body so well, had stolen the knowledge piece by piece, and he wished to give it all back. Ardently he kissed her, to call her moans to his mouth. With the grace, speed and strength that had beguiled her as she watched him practice, he removed her clothing, the whisper of fabric, the creak of the leather, the rending and sudden tear that brought her breath faster. He had to let go of her hand, regretfully, but the reward was her skin, the light on her skin and in her hair, the curve of her throat, bared. He knew exactly where she was sensitive, which strokes of finger and mouth drew moans and tightening of her muscles, that fingers along the indented hollows of her ribs would cause her thighs to tense and press together, then relax with a shiver. Of all the places of her body most visited, she shivered at his mouth at her throat. He shifted her to sit on his lap, his still-clothed body concealing that he was hard and straining not at all, pressed against her ass.

He moved her hair to fall over the side of her shoulder and kissed at the skin at the sensitive back of her neck, along her hair line. His legs were under her and he raised his knees between her legs and then hooked his legs around hers, trapping her legs and spreading them wide. He took her left hand in his and brought them both to her left breast, guiding her motions until she stroked as he would. He took her right hand in his and guided it between her legs, stroking at her clit until she caught the rhythm. He watched over her shoulder, hot breath, tongue, lips and teeth at her throat, at her ear. He spoke out loud what he had told himself he would never say to her. “You are mine, Ruth. It has always brought me the deepest, the most profound pleasure to watch you fall apart in my arms, helpless and wanting. Show me, my hand fast love. Show me that you are mine. Give me your moans, your cries, your screams.” He released his hands from hers, watched as she did as he asked, building the pleasure in her body as he tasted the sweat on her skin. He slid his finger inside her, slick heat and welcome. He dragged his nails over her skin, her scars, the lines and curves of her body in counterpoint to her caresses, lust sharpening the force in his hands and love softening the bite of the pain.

She was strength and power to him, and having her melt beneath his hands, under thrall to his skin, to his voice, struck through him with the wringing need of addiction. With all his failings and betrayals intended or simply due to ignorance and arrogance, she lay in his arms, twisted willingly into the shape of his desire. This knowledge shattered through him like brilliant shards of the pain and the lust and the love, forming the waiting vortex, far away now but coming ever closer, of losing his own control, drawn there by her. She panted, sweat forming over her skin and sliding under his hands. She listened to his voice in her ear, encouraging her to swell, to break, to fall, and she did, glorious and straining, her head back against his chest. She sought his mouth and moans built to cries against his lips.

He coiled himself away from her, twisted and shifted, found the fastest path to covering her body with his. He captured her hands with his and held her hands over her head with one hand, removing his clothing with the other hand, pressing to her with leather-clad body until his clothing slid off, switching his grip with his hands once. His lungs searing and his blood making him lightheaded he tangled his legs in hers again, held her down by the wrist and captured her throat in one hand and kissed her hard, demanding and relentless, his cock pressed pulsing against the crease of her thigh.

He moved his mouth to her ear and said “I believe you spoke of trial by combat and winning, my Siha. You have what you wished, but do you believe you would win that combat now?” He kissed down her throat, keeping her weighted down by his body and immobile as she started to laugh and then tested his hold on limbs. She tried to move, but only with half a heart and with laughter, and she said “You are such an asshole.”

His voice reflected her laughter and he caressed her throat again, bit at her earlobe and said “Timing, my love, determines outcome.”

It pleased her to laugh and it pleased him to kiss her through it until she was panting, every heave of her lungs recorded into the flesh of his chest. She said “What do you want, Thane?”

He said against her ear “Only this. To hear you say that you yield. I wish to hear you say those words as my hand fast love, spread beneath me soaked in pleasure and laughter. I wish to hear those words echo in my heart for as long as it beats. Tell me you yield, Ruth, for no reason other than because I ask.”

Her exotic, expressive red eyes warmed and a smile formed on her lips, transforming her face. She said “If it means that much to you.”

He nodded and said “It does.”

She stretched out the limbs that were bound and relaxed them, and looking in his eyes she said solemnly “I. Yield.”

Feeling drunk on power and lust, he hooked his hand under her knee and drew her leg up into what he imagined must be a painful position, kissed her and drove his cock into her with possessive intent, knowing this woman would welcome every stroke, the burn in her thigh and the burn in his lungs forgotten in the steep penetration with her body in this position.

Freed from reserve and showing her unguarded frenzy of desire he told her “I want you, I need you, I love you, Ruth. I yield.”

His arm left her knee, and his hands slid upward to clasp with hers, his full weight on her, her breasts crushed against his chest, his body driving into hers. He waited until she came, until she screamed, until she tightened around him. He let go of the trembling shreds of control that had brought him this far, burying his face in the welcome curve of her neck and shoulder. His lungs searing, his heart ready to burst, his muscles trembling, near blacking out from the release and the strain.

Everything. He’d had everything a man could ask in a life, his last year of life blessed and cursed and above all, vital and necessary. He was needed. He would die loved, needed and wanted.

Rolling onto his back, bringing her with him, he kissed her hair, kissed her face, kissed her lips, marveling that he was still alive, that she was here, and that he had been able to tell her, show her, what was in his heart.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He saw her when she came to the Citadel. He split his time between the apartment she had provided and the hospital, spending time with Kolyat, meeting Kolyat’s friends, old and new. 

She was brash and rude, matter of fact and a deep comfort as he declined. He was only newly known to medical professionals, to his son, and as always rumor followed and shadowed the eyes of those who watched. Only Ruth knew him well enough to ignore his posturing, step on his toes, reject his formal presentation and laugh, smile and growl at him. 

Ironically it was the view from the apartment she had arranged for him that allowed him to see Cerberus vehicles where there was no air car pathway.

His heart soared and blood sang as he changed into battle gear, familiar and fitting.

Perhaps it would be today. Ruth was away from the Citadel and he longed to see her, to fight at her side, but that sensation had the quality of a lost limb, unresponsive and bloodless. This would be his fight. He took an ill-advised number of painkillers to dull the increasingly excruciating pain that came with merely breathing to make his chosen path easier. With his Omni Tool muted and an ear piece in place he scanned the emergency channels. He moved unseen from the apartment after sending a message to warn Kolyat of the invasion.

In his solitary state he felt the urge to pray to Amonkira. As an artifact of his prior life he did so as part of ritual, focusing and channeling his thoughts. Perhaps on this day, his last day, some God would listen. Perhaps they would not, but he relished the chance.

He gathered from the emergency channels that C-Sec and Huerta were two of the first targets and that they had already been taken. Scattered C-Sec forces were active but undirected, having been driven from their strongholds. 

Thane occupied himself by stalking and ending the lives of Cerberus troops that had no visible backup, those slaughtering civilians as he made his way, his palms tingling again, the familiar snap of bone singing in his hands.

He had made his way through the bodies, creating his own when he heard Flight Lieutenant Moreau’s voice over the channel and he informed him of the situation. Shepard was informed. “Commander, there’s a communication from Thane. He says it’s important. Think you’ll want to hear this.”

Thane repeated “Shepard. The Citadel is under attack. Cerberus troops are everywhere and they control the docks.”

She asked “Are you safe?”

He replied “No. I had to evade their commandos. I’m in a presidium storefront.”

She continued with the sit rep “Did Kaidan make it out?”

He answered “I spoke to him. He said he had to protect the Council. I’m going to C-Sec headquarters.”

She asked “Why C-Sec headquarters?”

He informed her “It’s been compromised, and C-Sec’s response depends on it. As long as Cerberus is holding the headquarters they control the Citadel.”

She said “Thank you, Thane, now please get your ass to safety. We’ll be coming in, we will secure C-Sec.”

He smiled and answered “Of course, Shepard. I understand.”

She answered in mounting fury “I am not fucking kidding, Krios, get your ass behind the red line.”

He did not reply.

She made repeated threats on that comm line, repeated the same to his Omni Tool, and he did not reply. The path was singing in his blood and the alternative was a hospital bed. His Siha could not command where she had no power.

He knew where Shepard was heading and he was certain to be able to hear her arrival, if he lived that long, by the gunfire. He made his quiet way. He was able to listen to the comm line silently, listen to her progress, listen to Bailey’s updates.

Arriving where the Salarian councilor was before she did, he considered his options. There were two life signs in the room and the Salarian was still in an open position, Thane could not assist without becoming an immediate target. Saving the Salarian councilor was off the table until or unless he gained enough sense to use his cloak to better advantage and gain a defensible position. Tracking the second life sign above and over, he was concerned for a sniper, trying to get into position himself to take him out from cover, but truly, definitely wishing to do it up close. He had not fired his pistol yet, and did not wish to draw attention.

Drawing attention became necessary when breaking glass and a standoff between a Cerberus operative and the Salarian councilor and Shepard happened. Thane had checked the perimeter, ensuring no further snipers, but Shepard could not shoot without endangering the councilor and if that was her goal…then he could be the distraction.

Providing a distraction from directly behind him was not difficult, and he got the attention of the operative, giving Shepard enough time to get the Salarian councilor to relative safety. At that point his only true path would be to keep his attention, and keep the focus off of Ruth. He recognized the hand model of disruptor that the operative had been brandishing, warming up, targeting. It would kill point blank and the only thing that had kept him from using it on the councilor was that he wanted the councilor alive. There was no reason to avoid using it on Ruth, and Thane needed to prevent the device from activating.

His palms sang and he only dimly heard Ruth shouting, cursing, demanding that he get down. He could spare no time for her assessment, could grant this operative no free moments in which to position and regroup. He could not afford stealth, he could not afford to disappear.

Ten seconds only was how long it took that device to lock in, arm, obliterate through shields, through armor, a mass effect cone trajectory field that sheared through obstacles indiscriminately. Unstable, illegal, lethal. He focused only on ensuring that with her intent to intervene, she could not. He moved, flashed and drew attention, all against his nature, all viciously joyous as he struck.

He had had no choices that pleased him for too long, and running at the blade was all that was left to him.

The blade was so sharp that he did not feel it except for the tug of its withdrawal.

Thane had not killed the man, the first failure in his career.

Ruth was not dead, the last triumph.

He began to laugh, all burdens sliding from his mind as the blade had from his body. He had been cut through his useless lungs, his air no more labored than before. He was weak, but not in pain, and not bleeding much, the blade had been thin. It had been an inexpert angle and location, unable to kill instantly. He would die soon. The relief made him giddy.

He struggled to his knees and tried to stand. Ruth stalked to him and punched him in the jaw. She was red sparks and wrath and beauty. She said “I told you to stand the fuck down you motherfucking Drell asshole. I hope the pain in your jaw distracts you from the big fucking hole in your chest.”

Thane pulled her to him and kissed her, his hands through her hair. Her hands came to the sides of his face, frantic. He released her, trailed his fingers along her cheek and said “Go catch him. I have time.”

She narrowed her eyes and said “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

He smiled and wiped his blood from her mouth with his thumb, blue-green against the red. He felt relief that she was still here to hit him. A deep regret that she must go on and he would rest.

He nearly fell, but Garrus steadied him. Garrus said calmly “Bailey is sending help.”

Their squad mate, by description from Ruth it was Vega, had rushed down the stairs and then came back up, said “Took off in a shuttle, I saw where. We've got one on the way.”

Ruth closed her eyes, anguish and pain and fury on her face. She turned to Thane and said “You will stay here.”

He nodded his head and said “I believe I have no choice.”

She snarled “I could kill you myself.” 

Garrus said quietly “Shepard, you saw what he had. It would have killed all of us.”

She rounded on Garrus and said “I didn't ask for your fucking opinion, Vakarian. He got in our fucking way…on purpose…and ran into a sword at a gun fight. I get to call him on being an asshole in love with death.”

Thane laughed. She saw him. She knew him. She loved him in spite of his arrogance or because of it. It no longer mattered, she loved him now. The laugh turned into a blood-bubbled cough and Garrus steadied him further, cleared a desk and helped him lie down. Garrus said “Spirits, Shepard. Enough.”

Ruth spat dismissively “Thane knows what I’m saying.” Her voice softened and she said “He always knows what I’m saying.” She kissed him, her fingers stroking gently along the inner curves of his frill. She pulled back to more of his blood on her lips. Her face was pain and fury, grief and promised retribution. She shook her head with bleak decision, tears forming in her eyes. She took Thane's hand and said “Listen to me. Do not let go. You are loved.”

He said “You must follow war as I have followed death, but I do not love death, Ruth. I love you.”

She smiled, her face, her mind, her heart torn and he knew she was the more deeply injured between them. She said softly “You are lucky there's no afterlife, Krios. I would kick your ass from here to Kahje.”

His eyes closed and he struggled to open them, saying "That may not be as much of a disincentive as you might hope."

Her eyes squeezed shut, tears banished and resolute purpose on her face. She smiled as him as she had any number of times before possible death, her eyes holding the promise of following war, anticipating murdering all those who had cost her. Her targeted wrath focused on the operative, the Illusive Man, the Reapers, and he felt pity for them, seeing her now. She squeezed his hand and then she was gone.

They ran down the stairs with Vega saying “Well, now I’m fucking confused. That was hard core. You going to fucking punch me if I save your life, Lola?”

She said “He’s my husband. I get to punch him and he gets to fucking ignore me. It’s not like I didn’t know he was an asshole or he didn’t know I was a bitch when I married him.”

He heard the whine and slam of an arriving shuttle, and then the grey blurred edges of his vision turned to black.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He woke in the bright, sterile gleaming light of Huerta, Kolyat at his side.

Ruth had prevailed. Pride flooded him, strengthening the hold he had on consciousness.

The oxygen mask was a hindrance and Thane removed it, thoroughly impatient at not already being dead.

Kolyat said “Father, please, you need…”

Thane held up a hand and said “Kolyat. I will be more comfortable. Please understand my action is not disrespect, but choice. I have few remaining, and one would be to speak with a clear voice.”

Kolyat nodded, his hands gripping a prayer book. Thane asked about the Citadel, Kolyat told him what had happened. Ruth had let him know. Ruth had told him she was coming to Huerta to see him.

Thane said self deprecatingly “I am sorry to have hastened my departure.” It was a lie, and Kolyat, unlike Ruth, would not know that.

Kolyat said “She told me you are a hero.”

Kolyat would not know that was a lie either. Thane did not know what was true, whether he had saved her life or whether he had simply ended his own. It no longer mattered because he and Ruth knew that his choice had been made when he had seen Cerberus shuttles in the sky, when he had ignored her order to stand down, and not when he saw the operative’s hand. Thane said only “I am grateful that the Citadel is safe and she is alive. I am grateful that you are here, Kolyat. Remember that you have filled my last days with grace and I am proud to know the man you have become.”

Thane had pursued death and he had no regrets, and she would know that as well. She would see him now and he would leave this body with his love at his side, and he could not, would not apologize. He had breath enough left to see her, and he would follow her final order, and not let go before then.

He had promised himself his death would have meaning, and he had served that purpose over her wish that his life would be extended. He could choose to believe he died a hero. He could choose to believe he had given his life for hers, what remained of it. She would allow that now, with no other choices open. He had saved her life, over and over, offered his, over and over, and if this was only symbolic, it was final.

Her path was bleak and cruel and she would be alone on it. Not for the first time the sheer selfishness of binding her to him struck again, and then he was comforted by knowing that she knew, and she would not choose differently. She had made that viciously clear and he was grateful for her fire, to be warmed by her heat from a distance as the cold numbness climbed up his arms.

He did not feel pain, only the struggle to breathe, the lightheaded result of low oxygen. He wished he could feel where she had hit him.

It was a fitting end to all the mingled courage and cowardice that had been his life.

Kolyat began to read from the prayer book, and Thane recalled her smiles.

When she arrived, she and Kolyat embraced, and he was proud that the paths of his life allowed these two people to meet, to continue on together. To be inspiration and comfort to each other.

Ruth came forward and took his hand, pressed a kiss to the back of it, held her forehead to his hand and then looked at him, tears streaming down her face. Her touch was muted through the numbness, but he blessedly could still feel the warmth of her hand.

He said with his accustomed arrogance “That assassin should be embarrassed. A terminally ill Drell managed to stop him from reaching his target.”

She smiled with her lioness hunting smile and said “I feel sorry for the guy, and I will straight up until I kill him. The plan is for the last thing he hears to be your name. He had to run from you. Something you don’t know how to do.” Clear love and promise shone in red shades from her eyes, and she turned all his ill deeds into strengths because she said so.

Thane said “Kolyat, please, a prayer.”

Kolyat brought the book, and read, holding out the text for Shepard, who didn’t let go of his hand.

Kolyat said “Kalahira, this one’s heart is pure, but beset by wickedness and contention.”

Ruth spoke, tear stained words “Guide this one to where the traveler never tires, the lover never leaves, the hungry never starve.”

Kolyat spoke “Guide this one, Kalahira, and she will be a companion to you as she was to me.”

She knew the prayer was for her. Kolyat kissed Thane’s forehead, put his arm on Ruth’s shoulder, and then left them.

She said “Prayers for the wicked must not be forsaken?”

He smiled at her and said “I have faith in you, Siha.”

She shook her head and said “This is about you, Thane, not me.”

He said “You are my path, Ruth. My ability to walk ends, but you do not, and if you can be sustained by knowing that love does not end, that in that way the lover never leaves, that I would not leave you while I was alive and I would not in death given a choice, then I wish that for you.”

She ducked her head, fresh tears falling, and she lifted her helpless eyes, bereft of comforting lies people tell each other, something he had loved in her always, something that had saved him. She said “Lie to me.”

He said “Arashu brought you to me, and you are blessed, your path is fated. The Gods will guide you on your way and bring you to victory. I will await you on the shores, and each day will be as though you were with me, for you have granted me greater gift in memories than has ever been given to a mortal. Beyond all other riches, my Ruth.” He reached out a hand and traced the path of a tear and she leaned into his palm. He said “Tell me a truth.”

She said “I love you.” She stood, grasping his hand, and kissed him. His heart squeezed and skipped, faltered and his tears fell, indistinguishable from hers. He took his last breath, grateful his last memory would be of her lips on his.


End file.
